Stargate Ragnarok: Baptism of Fire, Part 2
by Sealurk
Summary: Ep 4: Hours into their first official mission, the survival of Taylor, the Lhoakans and even the SWRS itself hangs by a thread - but the Fenrir are not the only threat. Follows on immediately from Baptism of Fire Part 1.
1. Chapter 1

**Stargate: Ragnarok**

**Baptism of Fire, Part 2**

**Chapter 1**

Despite his challenge, the Fenrir didn't rush him. They didn't surge down the street, bury their silvery talons in his chest and begin tearing him apart. And somehow, that was more terrifying.

Something had changed. Taylor had seen Fenrir attack, kill and fight on far too many occasions, but he'd only seen them hunt a few times, and never so openly – it was a terrifying experience. Every aspect of their behaviour was changing, from their stance to their language, so much so it was as if they were regressing before his eyes to a feral, bestial state devoid of higher intelligence. With their prey trapped, they were deliberately drawing out and savouring every moment, letting the ecstasy of the hunt and their powerful predatory instincts overwhelm their minds, feeding off his rising fear and desperation almost like it was a drug – right now he wasn't facing down aliens from an advanced race capable of building gate-capable starships or personal shields, he was being toyed with by a pack of blood-crazed, instinct-driven animals that snarled and drooled as they approached. Part of him just wanted them to be done with it and kill him swiftly. It would be easy enough to force it – all he had to do was begin fighting back and they'd kill him in a matter of seconds.

"C'mon, there has to be something I'm missing..." he muttered to himself, feeling cold and sick with the knowledge that his death, while imminent, would not be quick or painless. He'd seen enough wildlife documentaries to know that much. One recess of his mind was amused at the grim idea of his demise being narrated by David Attenborough – the rest of his brain was a bubbling cauldron of panic and dread, incapable of rational thought and threatening to overwhelm the rest of his consciousness. He knew the only way to stave that off was to keep the logic centres working, to concentrate on cold facts and figures, and to this end, his brain was furiously evaluating every tactical nuance, every piece of flimsy cover and every object he could turn into something that might stall, hurt or even kill a Fenrir.

"WAIT! Killing me would be a huge mistake." he said loudly, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice as he stepped back, one hand raised in surrender, making a big show of releasing his rifle and letting it fall to his side while pulling a black canister almost the size of a Coke can from his tactical vest. Two of the wolves looked angry that the hunt had been interrupted and appeared to have come to an abrupt, anticlimactic end. They were growling furiously at each other while at least one looked like it was going to charge anyway, hunkering down and preparing to sprint towards him.

"Killing you would be hugely _pleasurable_, prey. You cannot hope to escape your demise with mere words or dishonourable tricks – you have no worth to us beyond sport and perhaps food." the lead Fenrir said, its mouth open but otherwise static.

Taylor was taken aback – despite the bizarre voice, the Fenrir was definitely speaking English. He quickly shrugged off this strange development.

"Actually, I do. See, self-preservation is a very strong instinct in humans. Frankly, right now I couldn't care less about honour, I just want to get out of here alive, and I will ensure that this happens. I'll even prove it to you." he said. Taylor took several steps back until he was completely in the open, stood with his hands on top of his head, hoping the aliens would understand the human gesture of surrender and supplication.

Judging from their reaction, trying to convince the vicious alien warriors that he wasn't a threat or even worthwhile prey but instead was more useful to them alive was going to be a tough sell.

The Fenrir were confused, and only two of them continued to stalk him until the lead Fenrir stood up, raised a hand to stop them, and half-barked, half-growled a response. The Stargate's mysterious and often inconsistent translation effect never seemed to work on the bizarre guttural language of the Fenrir, but the context was unmistakeable – and it hadn't been polite.

"How will you prove it?" the lead Fenrir said again.

"If you're as honourable as you claim, then I propose a deal. In exchange for you letting me leave, free and unharmed, you get to take a look at this. I think you'll find it quite enlightening." Taylor said as he underarm lobbed the device to the leader of the advancing wolves in the least threatening manner he could manage.

With remarkable speed and accuracy, the apparent squad leader angrily snatched the black cylinder out of the air, glaring at the human warrior. While they could clearly speak it, Taylor hoped and prayed the Fenrir couldn't read English. He was still counting in his head, and remembering the old US Army adage that five second fuses only last three seconds he screwed his eyes tight and pulled his hands down over his ears, hoping the movement would be surreptitious enough not to arouse too much suspicion.

His timing was impeccable. Even through his closed eyelids and despite being much further away, he recognised the painfully bright, million candle flash, and his ears rung with the hundred and seventy decibel bang – and it would be many times worse for the Fenrir.

Every second counted, so he started moving before he'd opened his eyes, relying on his spatial memory not to crash into the barrels and other obstacles in his path as he exploded into a sprint, staring at the ground while shielding his eyes to reduce the effects of further explosions. He couldn't hear anything except a high pitched tone, but he knew he was in a much better shape than his opponents.

As he burst towards the screaming Fenrir, he saw the apparent squad leader writhing on the ground clutching its head and shrieking in agony. Those further away from the blast were shaking their heads violently and staggering drunkenly, rubbing their eyes with the heels of their hands and crashing into the simple wooden crates and burlap sacks that littered the street. A deep, tiny portion of Taylor's brain made sure to let Moffatt know that, like humans, whatever system the Fenrir relied on to maintain their balance was similarly affected by loud noises.

Though their hearing and vision were impaired, their intelligence and combat sense were not. Claws lashed out blindly, forcing Taylor to drop to the ground mid-sprint and slide underneath the flailing limbs. His last flash-bang had only given him a slim fighting chance, buying him a few seconds, and he'd still have all five Fenrir to deal with, but now with mobility on his side, and in the narrow, twisting confines of the Lhoakan city, their fearsome speed would be of little use.

As he charged down the narrow alley, a worryingly recognisable mass awkwardly hit the ground of the open street at the end – another of the wolves had been walking along a rooftop, and though clearly dazzled and deafened it had been spared the worst of the stun grenade. The Fenrir stood, wobbling, and despite barely fitting in the alley, it surged towards Taylor, ropes of drool flying away from its snarling jaws.

Snatching at the HK 416 carbine dangling at his side and knowing he'd have to fire from the hip, Taylor squeezed the trigger, letting the carbine climb with the recoil. He watched as the rounds walked clumsily up the Fenrir warrior's torso, chaotic plumes of sparks bursting from the metal over the wolf's chest. At such close range the rounds were more deadly than usual as they punched through the alien's armour and into its flesh, and he almost emptied the magazine. The warrior-wolf shuddered and howled as its perforated body went limp.

It still had forward momentum even as it crashed to the ground. With a grunt, Taylor vaulted over the dead werewolf, recovering quickly from the unsteady landing and still sprinting. As he burst out of the alley, he kicked off the wall to change direction quickly without losing too much speed.

He raced through the streets, always picking the narrowest and the ones with as much overhead shelter as possible, turning every time he could. His direction and the familiarity of the surrounding buildings didn't matter to him now, only getting away from the werewolves hunting him. Thoughts raced through his head – he knew from personal experience that humans would be over the worst effects of a flash-bang about now, but Fenrir had much more sensitive eyes and ears. However, they were also much, much tougher than humans, so he wondered – how long would it take for them to recover?

A chorus of furious howling and baying answered his question. And they didn't sound too far behind him – they already knew which way he'd headed. Hell, he thought, with their sense of smell they probably knew how far away he was to the metre, and probably which blend of coffee he preferred at breakfast.

Clearly, stealth wasn't going to work under these circumstances.

"Llewellyn, your arse had better be nearby! I've got four very pissed off mutts on my tail!" he yelled into his radio, his lungs already beginning to burn. He ejected the magazine from his rifle, knowing there were still a few rounds in it but also knowing he needed a full, fresh thirty rounds in the carbine to take down one of the wolves.

"Roger that, I'm approximately five hundred metres from the palace. Where are you sir?"

The question hit him like a hammer. Getting away from the Fenrir with his body at least mostly intact had been the one and only goal, and now Taylor realised he had been running for so long through narrow, twisting streets, always avoiding exposed open areas that he had no idea where he was in relation to any landmark. It didn't appear to have done him as much good as he'd hoped – he could hear the howling and snarling even closer behind him now.

"In deep sh-"

The fléchettes punched into the cobbles near his feet before he heard the shriek of the hypersonic projectiles, reminding him of his priorities and giving him a new sense of urgency.

"Can't talk!" he shouted as he promptly skidded down a narrow, roofed side street, ricocheting off the walls like a pinball in lieu of steering. Further down, the alley was blocked by a tall stack of boxes, sacks and barrels, leaving only a small gap at the top.

"Oh c'mon!" he breathed. He could hear the scrap of trinium claws on stone, and furious, frenzied snarling right behind him.

"I will devour your flesh, prey!" an inhuman voice screamed. "Your bones will shatter between my jaws! Your blood will sate my thirst!"

Without slowing, he yanked the pin out of a fragmentation grenade, deftly dropping it on one of the open sacks of grain as he powered up the mountain of containers and dived through the narrow gap, praying he wouldn't get stuck, and then praying for hay or sacks of flour on the opposite side.

He twisted and rolled in mid-air just quickly enough to avoid cracking his skull open on the cobbles. Instead he landed flat on his back, grunting as the pain exploded through his body and the air expelled itself violently from his lungs, the back of his head thumping against cold, unyielding stone hard enough to make his eyes water. He dare not think how much worse it could have been if his ballistic vest hadn't absorbed as much of the impact as it did. He only wished that for once he'd been wearing a combat helmet.

Rolling onto his chest and pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he willed his legs to work again as his lungs tried to suck in volumes of desperately needed fresh oxygen. The baying of the alien hellhounds was close enough to chill his blood, and he could hear them frenetically tearing at the pile of merchant's goods.

The grenade detonated with a loud, sharp crack and an explosion of grey smoke and splintered wood bouncing off stone walls, showering him with smouldering debris. The change in the alien screaming suggested it had at least done something, but he could still hear the rhythmic clicking of trinium claws behind him.

"Crap!" he muttered.

He was the only living thing in a wide open street littered with the bodies of a few Lhoakan guardsmen, several civilians and a few beasts of burden. Around them, carts, market stalls and stacks of goods lay smashed and burning.

"Lieutenant, I don't recognise these buildings. I think I'm in some kind of warehouse district. I now have at least three, possibly four or more Fenrir pursuing me. I'm going to try and head directly back to the gate. All I have to do is head downhill, right?"

A shadow passing swiftly over him acted as a chilling reminder. Fenrir liked to hunt from above, using their incredibly powerful leg muscles to jump across streets and sprint along rooftops where they could get the drop – literally – on fleeing prey. They had the advantage once again, and as if to confirm it, a beam of angry orange darts punched into the paved street directly in front of him with a banshee scream. As tiny shards of stone shrapnel pierced his fatigues, causing a ripple of hot, needle-like sensations across his face and body, Taylor skidded, but he didn't know if he could slow in time.

* * *

"Llewellyn to Major Taylor. Major, do you read me?"

No response.

"Major Taylor, come in please."

There was still no reply, and Llewellyn felt a slight sickness in his stomach. His radio was working perfectly fine, and up until a moment ago, so had Taylor's. Numerous possibilities occurred to Llewellyn to explain why Taylor wasn't responding – his radio was damaged, he'd suddenly had to impose radio silence without being able to let anybody know, or he'd been rendered unconscious, severely injured or killed.

"Llewellyn to HQ. Major Taylor is in trouble and doesn't recognise his location – his last communication indicated he sees lots of warehouses and he's trying to move downhill. I'm going to head in what I think is his rough direction since I think I'm the closest to him, but I'm going to need navigation assistance." He said as he began jogging. The M32 grenade launcher was bulky and heavy and slowed him down, and the pack of explosive gear he always carried with him didn't help either, but he pushed himself onward, suspecting that Major Taylor's survival hung in the balance and every second would count.

"Copy that. What's your present location?" Major Hamilton said.

Llewellyn looked around.

"I'm about five or six hundred metres from the Governor's palace, two tiers down, heading south-south-west. There's a large pure white building on my right, with big windows, a wooden sign with white text on it, and in front of me there's a grey stone flyover passing over the street."

Seconds passed while Llewellyn waited for a response. It felt much longer.

"Lieutenant Llewellyn, Sub-Captain Waldroch just identified your position. Our tactical map shows a small Lhoakan contingent about two streets over, south-east of your position. He suggests obtaining directions to the warehouse district from them – and you have permission to commandeer the unit. I can't allocate you any more backup, so I recommend you take what you can get. Have you tried using RDF to locate Taylor yet?"

"Negative, sir. I'll try now, but I think he's still too far away. He sounded very out of breath, and given the speed he can run..."

"Understood. Try anyway, we might get lucky. I'll order every other unit to do the same, but based on what you've said, I think you're right – you're the closest."

Llewellyn slowed to a fast walk while he fiddled with his radio, activating the radio direction finding function. Without access to GPS or a network of static radio beacons while offworld, SG teams had long ago adopted more powerful equivalents of avalanche transceivers to locate each other.

There was no response, not one other SWRS beacon in front of him.

"Nothing yet sir, he's either out of range...or worse."

"Understood Lieutenant. Report back when you make contact with the Lhoakan guards."

"Copy. I'll radio with a sitrep as soon as possible. Llewellyn out."

* * *

Ignoring the points of stinging pain across his body, Taylor pushed onwards. He had to get inside, and quickly – with him in such an exposed, open area, he knew the Fenrir would easily be able to close the gap. Past the end of the large stone building on his left, he could see steps leading down to the street below, but they were too far away to be worthwhile. There were no visible doors, however at ground level, he could see a number of low but large windows composed of small diamond shaped panes, as if they lead to a basement of some kind.

The snarling of several Fenrir echoed through the streets behind him. He couldn't afford to take his time.

Slowing to a jog, Taylor aimed and fired two shots, shattering the simple crown glass window, then sprinted and slid feet first through gap, relying on his combat boots to kick away any glass that might otherwise present a hazard. Falling to the wooden floor below, he gritted his teeth a little from the sudden pain. Checking quickly, he found a scratch on his arm where a shard of glass remaining in the window frame had cut deeply enough to break his skin. It was a thin, shallow cut, with beads of ruby red fluid only now beginning to ooze out of the wound.

The huge three floor warehouse was exceptionally full. Yet more crates and boxes filled the building, many covered with tarpaulins. Barrels of every size holding spirits and liquor of every description, bags and sacks of grains and spices, coils of rope, bolts of cloth...plenty of hiding places, and plenty of strong, pungent scents to mask his own. A simple but effective looking crane made of wood, rope and pulleys allowed the goods to be moved on a wooden platform through a shaft cut in the upper two floors – it was currently stacked with goods and dangling near the third floor, clearly locked off and abandoned when the Fenrir had attacked.

On the far side of the warehouse, more than a hundred feet away, were a pair of large heavy-looking sliding doors. They looked like they would take one man considerable time and effort to open even enough to squeeze through, and make a lot of noise in the process. He kept studying the warehouse.

"Wait a minute..." he murmured to himself.

If the workers had hastily abandoned the warehouse when the Fenrir attack had started, as it looked like they had from the way several items had been dropped and were spilling across the floor, the doors should be open. So they must have left by some other entrance.

There was a loud thud from the street outside, the sound of something heavy dropping several floors into a deep puddle. Taylor's head snapped around to look, hoping it had been something innocuous like an abandoned sack of grain or even a piece of the building.

As a rule, grain and masonry did not growl. Its fur matted, he could see the tail and haunches of a Fenrir on the street above, thankfully facing away from him. Nevertheless, it was only seconds behind him. Had it seen and heard the broken window, or even him? He'd been hoping the heavy rain would help mask his scent, but maybe it hadn't been enough.

Taylor pulled the carbine to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The forty millimetre grenade jumped out of the launcher and arced towards the warehouse doors, barely arming in time before the explosion ripped them to shreds, filling the warehouse with smoke, dust and shards of charred wood. He began moving towards the shattered, smouldering doors, breaking open the grenade launcher and extracting the spent and still smoking grenade casing. He gently lobbed it into the debris near the door before quickly and quietly turning and heading for the side door and the cover of the crates.

The first Fenrir squeezed through the shattered window, completely ignoring the glass trying to pierce its Kevlar-strength flesh. In only a few strides it had moved to the gaping hole and field of shattered wood that had been the doors, before it sniffed the air and noticed the pungent smell emanating from the smoking, recently fired grenade casing.

It stuck its head out of the door, sniffing the air again and turning to see its pack-brother dropping down from the rooftop.

"The scent is lost!" the first wolf growled furiously.

"Amid the stench of the human foodstuffs, crude explosives and burning wood, it would be." The second wolf snarled in response.

"You would abandon the hunt so easily? It is a ruse, pack-mate. The prey has dared trick us!"

Snarling in anger, both Fenrir walked hurriedly back into the warehouse and looked around, digging their claws into the wood in frustration. The gloom didn't affect its vision, but any lingering warmth the prey may have left was blocked out by the heat of the recent explosion.

"There!" the wolf said to its pack-mate, both of them crossing the floor quickly to the small wooden side door, almost obscured by shelving.

It reached out and grabbed the tiny, crude metal handle and yanked the heavy, creaking door open so hard it almost came off its hinges. There was only a faint scent trail through the musty air, while the burning torches obscured the prey's heat trace. Worse still, there were several paths the prey could have taken, but the immediate concern of both Fenrir was the brick that had been propped against the door, and the small olive green metal globe that had been pinned between the two. It clinked as it rolled across the stone floor towards the Fenrir, and shortly after the two alien warriors realised what it was but before they could react, it made a much, much louder noise.

* * *

Despite Waldroch and Hamilton's information, there was no Lhoakan guard unit when Llewellyn rounded the corner and took in the view of the street. There was only the eerily still aftermath of carnage.

"Oh my God..." he murmured, quickly raising the grenade launcher and hurriedly checking all around him, making sure he wasn't walking into a trap – or a Fenrir feeding frenzy.

Tensing and feeling sick at the vision of almost incomprehensible death in front of him, he lost count of the number of shattered and torn corpses lying on the cobblestones, their blood pooling together as rain drenched their once resplendent uniforms. Finely crafted weapons, their blades and hafts engraved with text and intricate designs, lay scattered and bloodied across the street, many of them warped or shattered. Hastily erected barricades had been smashed to pieces with astonishing force.

Though they had paid dearly, the guard's lives had not been entirely wasted – admirably, Llewellyn could make out two Fenrir corpses. One was riddled with dozens of arrows, while the third also had the head of a pike buried in its stomach, the shaft broken off and lying some distance away.

"Lieutenant Llewellyn to Major Hamilton."

"Go ahead."

"Sir, the Lhoakan guard unit has been wiped out. I don't know how many, it's…hard to tell. Dozens, possibly fifty or even sixty of them…all dead. It's a massacre. Somehow, they managed to kill two Fenrir…with arrows, lots of them." Llewellyn reported sombrely, feeling like he was going to throw up violently at any moment.

It took several seconds for Hamilton to respond in an equally sombre manner.

"Understood, Lieutenant. Stay sharp, there may be more Fenrir near your present location."

Llewellyn was scanning the rooftops and shadowed alleyways, the gloom and rain softening everything and making the shapes harder to pick out.

"No sign of hostiles in the immediate area. I think...standby."

Llewellyn paused. He thought he'd heard something. He slowly clutched the grenade launcher and raised it warily, stooping as he stepped backwards. It hadn't been the clicking of claws on stone, nor had it been a growl or snarl.

"Hello? Anybody there?" he said, cautiously. He listened keenly – there it was again, a quiet, strained and decidedly human moan.

"Help...me."

"Correction sir! Seems like one survivor!" Llewellyn was already running towards the faint cry for help. He had to move quickly while keeping traction in the rain and blood soaked street as he carefully picked his way between, around and over dead Lhoakans slumped everywhere, all of them bearing some gruesome hallmark of a fatal encounter with Fenrir fléchettes, plasma, claws or even teeth, all the while keeping an eye out for hidden Fenrir. There was always the possibility this was a trap.

Buried beneath the bodies of several of his fellow soldiers, and with his forehead bleeding significantly enough to be a cause for concern, there was a soldier. He was conscious but barely moving, and to Llewellyn it looked like the only thing keeping him alive was the intricate silvery metal cuirass that prevented the weight of his fallen comrades crushing his chest to the point he couldn't breathe. Even with it, he was having difficulty drawing in enough oxygen. Realising what he would have to do to free him, Llewellyn hurriedly placed the grenade launcher on the ground, rolled up his sleeves, grabbed the man's single outstretched arm and pulled. If it was a Fenrir trap, now was the very best moment for them to spring it.

After several seconds of exertion and pained screaming from the trapped soldier, it became clear it wouldn't be that simple.

"Okay, we'll have to do it the hard way. Bear with me. I'll have you out shortly." the Welsh engineer said, trying to keep the soldier's spirits up as he grabbed the first dead body and began heaving it off. It was heavier than he expected, and his awkward position didn't help. He had to lean over to get a decent hold of the first cadaver and couldn't get closer without risking kicking the trapped warrior in the face or trampling on the other corpses, both of which he was very loathe to do.

"Please...hurry." the soldier said with laboured breaths.

Llewellyn grunted as he grabbed a second corpse, who in life had been a huge man apparently composed of nothing but muscle and heavy plate armour, and in death seemed to be even heavier and harder to move. From the long shafted weapon near his hand, it looked like he'd been a pikeman of some description before a swarm of trinium fléchettes cut him down. Lhoakan pikemen all seemed to follow the same pattern: big, tough and hard to move.

"Hold on!" Llewellyn first grunted and then almost screamed with the exertion as he fought to stay upright while heaving the pikeman off the soldier's form.

"Grace of Daphell, I can breathe again!" the Lhoakan warrior gasped as the weight of the pikeman was finally removed. Weak and weary, he pushed himself up on his hands as he took several deep lungfuls of cold, wet air. Scooping up the M32 launcher, Llewellyn helped him to his feet. The soldier was unsteady, leaning on Llewellyn for support while they quickly moved towards a relatively dry doorway. As he reached it, the soldier crumpled and sat on the step. Llewellyn was already pulling a field dressing from his tactical vest to bandage the soldier's head wound.

"What happened here?" Llewellyn asked as they stared out over the still and bloody scene.

Taking a deep breath, the soldier began, his voice breaking slightly. Llewellyn couldn't imagine what it must feel like to have experienced this level of horror when you knew so many of the people lying dead – or how much worse it must be if you were the only survivor.

"A messenger told us the wolves were moving towards us, so we assembled. They cut through us like...paper, while our weapons...I don't know. We struck them so many times before even one of them fell. The two we did kill lead the charge and still killed many warriors before they succumbed to their injuries…we didn't stand a chance."

"What's your name?" Llewellyn asked, gazing at the horror in front of them. The only way to keep functioning was not to think about what the dead bodies represented, to keep his thoughts cold and logical until they got back to the Garrison. He got the distinct impression the Lhoakan understood this as well – it would be all too easy and forgivable for him to break down, but he remained alert.

"I am First Bowman Samalynius Ammra of Phelle's Company of the House Morthes." the soldier said, bowing slightly as he saluted by placing his right palm on his left shoulder. Llewellyn blinked and thought it through.

"Okay, that's a lot to take in...mind if I call you Sam?"

Sam nodded, smiling weakly.

"Well, Sam, I'm Lieutenant Gareth Llewellyn of the House...well, we don't have houses like that where I come from. You can just call me Gareth. Anyway, it's nice to meet you Sam. Wish it were under better circumstances."

"As do I."

Llewellyn was still watching the streets and the rooftops for any of the tell-tale signs of Fenrir.

"Tell me Sam…can you give me directions to the warehouse district? My commanding officer is being hunted by a pack of these wolves – if he isn't already dead."

Sam stared at Llewellyn. It was hard to tell if the man's spirit had finally been broken, or if there was something else going on in his eyes.

"No. I won't give you directions. I will, however, show you the way personally. I intend to avenge my fallen comrades, and if you are seeking to kill more of these wolves, I insist on accompanying you. I have seen what your weapons can do, but you will need assistance nonetheless, if only to draw their attention."

Without waiting for a response, Sam marched into the street and pulled an ornate longbow and a quiver of equally finely crafted arrows from the ground and began wiping the blood and rain off them. He began to walk back to Llewellyn, but something caught his eye. Stooping, he gently, respectfully retrieved several pieces of equipment from a soldier that Llewellyn guessed had been an officer.

By the time they set off, Sam was carrying a long knife strapped to his shin and the officer's two pistol crossbows, even more ornate and expensive looking than the rest of the Lhoakan weapons, each with a hip mounted quiver for the smaller bolts. Whether he succeeded in taking down any of the wolves or not, he would go down fighting.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I should tell you now__ (since I forgot to tell you when I posted Chapter 1__!__)__ that __this __whole __episode of Stargate Ragnarok won't be updated __nearly __as frequently as previous eps. I'm going to aim for a chapter a week or better, but__ it may take longer since I'm still working on it__.__ Other than that, all I have to say is I hope you're enjoying it__, hope you enjoy the holidays__ and hope you're not missing SGU _too_ much!_

**Chapter 2**

The wound was minor, but Taylor didn't like the idea of the Fenrir tracking him by the scent of his blood, so he fumbled with the field dressing, hoping he'd been able to sprint far enough from the warehouse to buy him time enough to plan his next move.

The streets were deserted. It seemed every human being that had inhabited them had either fled to safer areas, or had been killed in the initial Fenrir attack. Some of the buildings had massive chunks blown out of them, while a few were burning furiously. Timbers and rubble littered the streets almost as much as trade goods and hand carts, and some of the warehouses creaked and rumbled ominously. A tall, steep pile of bricks that up until a few hours ago had been a large building blocked his path. It would be too loud and take too long to clamber over them, avoiding the burning timbers that stuck out at odd angles. It was safer to find another route.

There was a loud cracking, snapping sound like a whip as achingly bright blue plasma splashed across the wall next to him. The pressure wave washed over him, carrying with it intense stinging heat, the stench of ozone and the crackle of dispersing electricity as the superheated masonry exploded into a shower of hot chips and dust. Ducking on instinct and feeling a hundred minute needles riding the shockwave into his unprotected legs and arms, Taylor charged around the corner to get out of the line of sight of the owner of the Fenrir plasma weapon.

With a furious snarl from its owner, the massive paw lashed out of the shadows and connected with Taylor's abdomen with savage power and speed, it's wickedly curved silver talons all too visible. Before he had time to react or register the sudden explosion of pain in his stomach and chest, Taylor was hurled through the air by the strike, crashing painfully and unceremoniously back to the street almost ten metres away before bouncing into a puddle of rainwater. Flung from his grasp by the impact with the ground, the HK416 went skittering away across the cobbles as he landed, sliding into another puddle.

"Huuurrgh! Huuuh!"

He writhed and thrashed in the puddle as his lungs refused to work, desperately trying to suck much needed air into his bruised chest but only making hollow gasping sounds. He struggled to force himself onto his hands and knees, his previously damp fatigues now completely drenched.

The Fenrir stepped out of the shadows, growling and moving slowly but deliberately towards Taylor's form. Rain pattered off its black armour and into its chocolate brown fur, matted into glistening spikes. Casually hanging from one arm was the plasma weapon, water dripping from its cleaver-shaped bayonet while its glowing barrel was so hot that rain turned immediately to hissing steam. The Fenrir approached, its claws clicking against the wet cobbles. Running out of oxygen, Taylor thought frantically – he was partly grateful the wolf had backhanded him, or those trinium talons would have punched through his armoured vest and ripped his torso open. As it was, the force of the blow had travelled through his Osprey vest, through the ceramic-polymer trauma plates within, and still had enough force to hit him in the solar plexus and cause his diaphragm to spasm, winding him. If he couldn't breathe, he could hardly fight.

"I thought you to be more challenging and worthy than this, prey. My kin dedicated considerable time to your pursuit, yet see how easily I strike you – and now I find you helpless in the gutter, crawling and wailing like an infant! No matter – I shall still be the one to end your miserable existence." The Fenrir said as it plucked a strange, curved knife from its belt with one hand.

Quickly, it reached down with its other hand. Taylor heard and felt the claws pierce and rip the Kevlar in his tactical vest as it grabbed a firm hold and hauled him effortlessly out of the puddle before striding towards the building behind him and pinning him none too gently against the brick wall. The impact was enough to get Taylor's lungs just barely starting to work again, forcing him into a paroxysm of heaving and coughing. Desperately, he grabbed the Fenrir's hand in a futile attempt to prise the fingers away whilst kicking ineffectually at the creature's chest. As it raised the curved blade high in the air, its lips contorted into an obscene parody of a smile, revealing rows of vicious silver fangs. Something clicked and the knife changed, suddenly extending and distorting until the blade was at least three times longer than it had been, though now the sword's blade seemed blurry, emitting a sound like a million angry hornets.

"Why resist, prey? It is a good death, that I claim your head as my trophy for the honour of my clan, my pack and myself."

"Not today you don't!" Taylor choked.

In one swift motion Taylor thrust his hand down, grasping and yanking free the P226 pistol on his thigh. Still pinned to the wall and still disoriented, he aimed at the first large expanse of exposed fur he could and fired. The wolf snarled as the nine millimetre bullets slammed into its shoulder and neck, a thin trickle of black blood leaking out of each wound and causing the wolf to lower the sword.

It had little effect. Angered, the wolf raised the buzzing sword high again. Its solid golden eyes, lacking both pupils and irises, widened as the two small silver crossbow bolts buried themselves in its skull. Taylor quickly found himself released from the Fenrir's grip and fell back into the puddle as the enraged, agonised wolf staggered away, dropping the strange sword and plucking ineffectually at the bolts lodged firmly in its head. The fallen blade quickly shrank again and stopped humming while blood poured from the wounds of the screeching Fenrir. Quickly, Taylor scrambled over to the puddle where his rifle had been thrown, shaking the worst of the rainwater out of it as he snatched it up. Spinning, he aimed at the flailing, howling Fenrir and squeezed the trigger. The burst of shots punched into its head and neck, and the alien fell silent and still.

It was still too late. The Fenrir had called it's brethren with its dying breath, and now baying, howling and snarling from every street and rooftop within a thousand feet of his current position filled the air. He turned to see who had fired the two crossbow bolts, and saw a Lhoakan archer standing atop the pile of rubble, a spent crossbow pistol in each hand.

"Major, come!" the archer gestured frantically, sliding both weapons back into holsters on his belt.

The roar of approaching Fenrir grew more blood-curdling with every second, and Taylor suddenly found a reserve of explosive energy he didn't know he had and all the motivation he could need.

"Thanks!" Taylor said breathlessly as he scrambled madly up the rubble pile, no longer concerned with stealth as shattered bricks and smouldering chunks of wood loosened by his crazed ascent bounced and slid down the pile. Nodding and smiling with impatience and without humour, the archer reached down and hauled him over the crown of the heap and ushered him towards a narrow, covered alleyway.

"Follow, Major!" the archer said as they both pounded across the debris. It was a small miracle neither of them lost their footing as they sprinted across the rubble before squeezing into the narrow gap of the alley.

"What's your name?"

"Sam!" The archer was quick and agile despite the awkward size and shape of his weapons, and Taylor almost had trouble following him as they surged through twisting, labyrinthine tunnels before emerging into a wide street. As they exited the alley, Taylor whipped his head round to see Llewellyn standing against the wall clutching his M32 launcher.

"_Damn_ good to see you Lieutenant!" Taylor grinned. "Now run, because we've got psychotic furballs by the dozen behind us!"

The three men charged through the streets, but the baying was growing closer with each passing second.

"We can't outrun them!" Sam cried. Taylor wanted to contest this claim, but he knew it was all too accurate.

"So we don't! How close are reinforcements?" Taylor responded as they took yet another turn.

"Not close enough to make a difference, sir! We're basically on our own for the next mile or so!" Llewellyn said.

"We can't hide. We can't run. So we fight." Sam said sternly.

"He's got a point, we need to eliminate as many of the Fenrir as we can." Taylor said, desperately looking around. His eyes settled on something below and ahead of them.

"What do you reckon it would take to bring them down, Lieutenant?" Taylor said with a grin, pointing at a pair of identical stone warehouses on the tier below them, each cratered and blasted by Fenrir heavy weapons. Flame and smoke belched out of great rents in their walls, but they remained standing. Barely.

"A half-decent kick?" Llewellyn said incredulously as they changed course and pounded down steps toward their new destination. Behind them they could hear the chilling sounds of crazed snarling and howling. This was no longer a hunt. It was now a prelude to a bloodbath.

With the three of them charging down twisting flights of worn stone steps it didn't take them long to reach the buildings.

"Oh crap."

The warehouses occupied both sides of the street in front of them, both of them burning furiously and partly demolished, but most importantly what lay ahead of them was clearly a dead end, a high stone wall with no obvious way through, around or over. What they hadn't been able to tell from the level above was that the two warehouses were in fact a single U-shaped building, the smaller structure joining the two larger ones resembling a loading dock. The single large building was surrounded by a variety of carts, wagons, crates and barrels whilst small fires burned here and there. The space around the building was too exposed to run anywhere else.

"Llewellyn, work your magic."

"Four one and a quarter pound blocks of magic should suffice. I'll need a minute to rig the charges properly, sir." Llewellyn said, dropping to one knee and opening his explosives satchel as the trio braked sharply between the two burning, creaking warehouses.

"Are you sure we're safe?" Sam asked nervously.

"Sam, we're hiding between two burning buildings that are close to collapse. We're not safe, we're just saf_er_ – I'm hoping the fire will mask our presence. With the smoke and flames, they shouldn't be able to smell us, see us, see our body heat or hear us, and best of all the Fenrir are clever enough to know that anybody would have to be mentally unstable and unspeakably stupid to even _consider_ hiding in a raging inferno. That should at least buy us a few minutes." Taylor said, the cooling raindrops on his skin only slightly offsetting the heat from the heat of the intense fires behind the stone walls.

"Oh. I see." Sam said nervously.

As Llewellyn worked, Taylor gestured to Sam, and the two of them began creating cover by tipping handcarts and dragging barrels and crates, constantly checking the open end of the alley for Fenrir activity. Once finished, Sam sprinted to the relative safety of the loading docks, squatted behind a stack of crates and began reloading the two pistol crossbows. Taylor watched as he tore strips of cloth from the linen shirt under his jerkin and wound them around the broadhead arrows before taking a small hide flask from his belt and dribbling a pungent oil onto them. Taylor jogged into position, cautiously scanning the end of the street for Fenrir activity. There was no sign, but they were close.

"Sir!" Llewellyn said. Taylor turned and caught the charge, a long block of plastic explosive in a dark green wrapper with a detonator attached. He ran to what looked like a critical load-bearing buttress, peeled the adhesive backing off the charge and pressed it firmly against the stone near ground level, seeing Llewellyn do the same on the opposite side of the street. He armed the detonator and ran further up the street, Llewellyn tossing him a second charge while the engineer set the last one himself. With all four set, the two men sprinted for the relative safety of the loading docks and their makeshift cover.

"Get ready, they're not far away now."

"You'll need to cover me while I prep the remote detonator sir."

"We really need to get better kit." Taylor muttered. He nodded, accepting the grenade launcher Llewellyn handed him before busying himself with the small electronic gadget. It was barely audible over the crackling and roaring of the fire, a clicking noise from the end of the alleyway. As one, they looked up.

"Uh…" Sam started.

"Well, we're screwed." Taylor murmured.

There couldn't be many Fenrir anywhere else in the city – it looked like they were all here. There were more than a dozen of them blocking the far end of the alley, lining every rooftop, motionless and fixated on the trio of humans. A snarl went up from one of the more authoritative looking wolves and a slow ripple of motion began. Some began to retrieve their gun-axes from their backs, others flexed their claws, ran crimson tongues over silver teeth or dropped to all fours in readiness for the slaughter to come.

"Now would be a very nice time for a surprise orbital strike by a 304." Taylor said aloud. Nothing happened. "Emergency beam out?"

Hidden from view behind the cart, Llewellyn shrugged as he worked.

"Eh, worth a shot." Taylor said.

The wolves snarled, growled and tensed.

"Behind cover. Now. Do _not_ fire until I say." Taylor muttered, raising the grenade launcher. Beside him, Sam finished reloading the two pistol crossbows, before holstering them and readying his longbow.

"They can almost certainly hear anything we say, so watch your tongue. Also, I don't think we're going to get a supervillain speech before they start, so be ready. Lieutenant…what ammo are you using?"

"Hellhounds, sir."

"Good to know. Wait for my signal. Sam, on my mark try and wound as many of them as you can. Go for the closest, don't worry about killing them, just slow them down."

Taylor's tactical talent and keen sense of timing was working in overdrive. If they blew the buildings now, too many of the Fenrir would survive. They had to let them come closer, but thin their numbers as they approached.

A howl went up amongst the Fenrir and they surged forward.

"MARK!" Taylor shouted.

The HELLHOUND grenade leapt out of the launcher and smashed into the ground further up the street. Two Fenrir leapt out of the way a fraction of a second too late as the high explosive projectile detonated with a sharp crack, an angry black explosion cored with orange blossoming where it hit.

Taylor quickly sidestepped behind stronger cover, sighting through the launcher's scope at each Fenrir with a gun in its hands. As fléchettes screamed past him, shredded their weak cover and pierced the brick wall behind them, Taylor continued to fire, the launcher in his hands jerking backwards with each thump as he began to share the remaining cartridges between the Fenrir scattered throughout the street. The enhanced HELLHOUND grenades were more than powerful enough to take them down – a point blank enhanced high explosive 40mm grenade was going to ruin your day no matter how much trinium your flesh incorporated – but the aliens were often agile and fast enough to jump out of the way, reducing their lethality. Fiery, furious explosions broke the Fenrir advance, felling lots of the warriors in a remarkably short space of time.

The launcher clicked – it only had six cartridges. Dropping it, he scooped up his carbine and sighted through the ACOG. He only put two or three rounds into each Fenrir, nowhere near enough to kill, only enough to wound them, make them pause or stop. The fléchettes were ripping their cover to shreds, shrieking past them, but the Fenrir still weren't close enough. Next to him Sam shot flaming arrows into the wolves closest to them, narrowly avoiding angry orange streams of miniscule, hypersonic darts pouring from the alien weapons. The aliens paused, howling and hissing as their now burning fur stopped them from charging and made them drop their weapons.

"Right side, roofline!" Llewellyn barked.

Taylor spun, aimed and fired, discharging the single 40mm grenade from his carbine's launcher into the eaves of the warehouse on that side of the street. The roof crumpled and the three surprised Fenrir, riddled with shrapnel, were hurled upwards in a ball of flame and brown smoke before crashing to the street below, lifeless.

Sam fired again, an ordinary arrow embedding itself deeply in the thigh of a nearby Fenrir. A line of fléchettes erupted from a distant gun-axe and the archer cried out in pain and slumped to the ground. Concerned, Llewellyn glanced over, seeing the soldier alive, conscious but clutching his bloodied shoulder.

A bolt of blue plasma streaked down the street, smashing into the wall behind them. Superheated, the stone exploded and showered them with chips.

"Screw this, blow it!" Taylor yelled, verging on panic. Llewellyn nodded and slapped the detonator.

Four powerful, ear-splitting cracks filled the air and four clouds of angry smoke and fire erupted from the buttresses. Two Fenrir fell directly to the explosions, the rest stopping and looking about in terror and confusion before a deep, bass rumble spread through the street. Taylor's ears were ringing loudly and his head pounded from the nearby blast.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the walls began to move, picking up speed as they leaned further and further off the vertical. The few remaining Fenrir along the roofline lost their footing and slipped off the moving walls as the weakened roofs gave way, slamming into the pavement below. A handful of burning, heavily damaged timbers supporting the walls snapped as huge cracks rippled through the creaking, explosively weakened masonry. Slabs of brickwork pitched off the edges of the holes in the walls and crashed to the street below, forcefully smashing a Fenrir to the ground.

All of a sudden, the slow destruction of the building picked up speed. Bricks turned to dust and clouds of heavy missiles as entire sheets of stone hurtled towards the ground, devouring the startled Fenrir in the shadow. The walls were engulfed by their own dust before they hit the pavement, shaking the ground and releasing an almighty crashing noise as innumerable tonnes of heavy, dense stone and burning timbers smashed into the screaming aliens sprinting to escape. A roiling cloud of opaque, dun dust sped down the street towards the three human defenders. All three turned, squatted and closed their eyes and mouths as the cloud passed over them and their flimsy cover.

Seconds later, Taylor stood up slowly and warily as the dust and smoke began to clear. Save for the loading dock and parts of the outer walls, the building had been levelled, the dark grey rubble filling the street, crushing and pulverising everything underneath. Scattered, tiny flames flickered through the smoke. Taylor coughed and watched as several lighter patches of rubble began to stir. As each unsteady, grievously wounded Fenrir pushed the stone and brick aside and stood, Taylor aimed and fired, quickly finishing them off.

"I really hope the Lhoakans appreciate our assistance, cos this…this may not go down well." Taylor muttered, surveying the devastation.

"Sam, are you okay?" Llewellyn said, moving hurriedly to check the archer's injuries. Sam nodded feebly, blatantly lying and grimacing in pain.

"Impressive, prey!"

Taylor looked around. The voice was clear and loud, but odd, inhuman – a wavering, rumbling sound with a fluctuating timbre. Standing on the roof of the building behind them, silhouetted menacingly against the overcast sky, he saw another Fenrir – except it wasn't just another Fenrir. This one was different, standing almost a head taller than the rest of its race and possessing an even more fearsome bulk enhanced by its intricate, elaborate, metallic crimson and gold armour. Its fur was jet black and seemed to be missing patches across its entire body. Studying its face, Taylor saw jagged lines and craters in the flesh and a jagged rip in its left ear, and something about the pattern and shape of the severe scarring made part of his mind scream for attention.

Llewellyn hurriedly aimed the grenade launcher he'd retrieved from Taylor at the wolf. It snarled and pointed its own weapon at the engineer – Taylor had seen several like it before, carried by the Fenrir that had caught him by surprise and slammed him into a wall scant minutes earlier, as well as the shielded wolf during the Battle of Lyngvi, a wolf that this one bore a remarkable resemblance to in its size and choice of arms and armour. The weapon seemed to be made from wood and metal and vaguely resembled a sort of warped AK-47 but without the pistol grip – the Fenrir held it one handed by the stock. Directly in front of the sickle-shaped magazine was a huge, broad, flat ended blade that extended to the very end of the barrel, and Taylor vividly remembered the bolt of blue plasma the gun fired. Llewellyn would be ripped to pieces if it hit him.

"Lieutenant." he said calmly, motioning for him to lower the weapon. Something told him he'd just saved Llewellyn's life. The wolf crouched and jumped high off the roof, sailing through the air and landing with incredible force and precision at street level some distance in front of them, loosening several cobblestones and shattering others – it had dropped and jumped forward more than forty feet, yet it walked as if it had merely hopped down a step as it turned to face him. He noticed it had lowered its weapon, and walked slowly and casually towards him.

"The prey is wise! Your simple weapon would be of no use anyway – I count only six cylinders, one for each of the bursts that took warriors of mine." the wolf said, its mouth gaping but neither its jaws nor its lips were moving.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'm not good with surprises. You should see what happened at my thirtieth birthday party." Taylor said sarcastically. The wolf threw its head back and made a sound that could only be laughter.

"You are not sorry, and nor should you be! Many of my pack-brethren fell from the mortal path today, but with their demise, my glorious clan edges closer to Ascendancy. You have done me a favour, prey, by eliminating weakness in the Clan Redjaw's blood chain."

Taylor straightened up, knowing that Llewellyn was tensing. Both Taylor's rifle and Llewellyn's launcher were empty, and would take far too long to reload. Sam was out of the fight, and even uninjured he wouldn't have been able to do enough damage quickly enough.

Taylor casually pulled his service pistol out of his holster and fired three shots at the wolf's exposed head. Each nine millimetre round from the P226 caused the previously invisible personal shield to shimmer into existence, a chaotically patterned blood red particle field. He knew just how tough those shields were too.

The Fenrir cocked its head as it slowly advanced, unfazed by the gunfire, instead seeming curious or even insulted. Taylor held his pistol up almost apologetically.

"Hey, you know I had to try. Not really surprised you've got one of them, or that snazzy Kalashni-cleaver. I've met another of your kind with toys like yours. Blew him into steaming furry mincemeat, in case you're wondering." he said, smiling wickedly.

The wolf cocked its head in the other direction.

"Ah, yes, the Clan Champion. He earned his pack much honour in that battle."

"Too much of a coward to lead the troops yourself, huh? The fearless leader, commanding from the rear." Taylor said, injecting as much venom and contempt as he could into the words. Right now, it was the only real weapon he had, one with almost limitless ammunition. He just didn't know how powerful any of the ammo was, counting entirely on the Fenrir concept of honour to be a weakness he could exploit.

Snarling viciously, its lips drawn back and exposing rows of wickedly sharp silver teeth, the wolf surged forwards, one arm raised with silvery talons outstretched and ready to rip him in half. Llewellyn raised his useless grenade launcher as he stepped back, sliding his free hand into the messenger style bag on his shoulder.

"You think to impugn my honour, miserable prey? I would feast on your bones for that slight, but you have no means to fight back!" the Fenrir spat, its booming voice rumbling and splintering with vehemence.

Taylor stepped forward fearlessly, now mere feet away from the snarling, eight foot beast. He knew it could kill him in a fraction of a second with its teeth, claws or simple brute strength, but he had found a weakness, a sore wound that he was going to poke and twist and squeeze for all it was worth.

"Oh, now, I wouldn't say that – besides, it's never stopped you lot before. Shooting fleeing civilians in the back can't be honourable, and they sure as hell couldn't fight back, so don't give me that bull."

The wolf seethed, but there was an aspect of its expression that suggested it was quietly impressed.

"Now, you might guess from what happened just now that Lieutenant Llewellyn here is exceptionally talented with high explosives, never goes anywhere without them. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've seen him do with them. He can set a charge in his sleep, and he can certainly do it one handed. Sort of scary, really, but I'm glad he's on my side. Lieutenant?"

Taking his cue from Taylor, Llewellyn pulled the bag on his shoulder into view, his hand still stuffed deep inside it.

"This," the engineer said with remarkable pride, pulling an object from the bag, "is a demo charge – fifteen pounds of PE4. You might know of something similar we use, known as C4. It's one of our best explosives, and it's rigged to blow. And this is what sets it off – as well as the rest of the explosives I'm carrying."

Letting the spent grenade launcher dangle on its strap, Llewellyn held both objects aloft for the wolf to see, his thumb flicking the red safety cover up and remaining poised over the switch on the compact remote detonator. Taylor turned back to the Fenrir, smiling.

"Trust me, I know how tough your shield is, but that much C4 at point blank range...ooh, that's gonna hurt. For about a microsecond. One, two, five, BOOM."

"Best. Hand grenade. _Ever_." Llewellyn said appreciatively.

The wolf laughed again, lowering its claw and taking one step back.

"Yes, impressive, definitely impressive. I have encountered your explosives before tonight. A commendable prey who called himself O'Bannon used them to deny me his head as a trophy." the wolf said, and Taylor made the connection – they'd always known SG-15's leader had used a grenade to kill himself, but they never really knew why. The pattern of scarring on the wolf's body, the same pattern some deep recess of his brain had been shouting about since he first saw the alien – shrapnel injuries radiating out from a single nearby point. Only the creature's trinium-strengthened flesh had stopped it being ripped apart.

"I must say, prey, I enjoy the spirit of your kind, it makes the hunt all the sweeter. But if this is as powerful as you say, your concoction will kill you as well."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that. I'm not sure what your point is though."

The wolf stepped back slowly, lowering its arm.

"Yet again you impress me. The prey of my world has long since lost such spirit, but yours have retained it, even strengthened it. I would know the name of such worthy sport."

Taylor straightened himself again.

"Tell me, or I will lose patience and execute you both." the Fenrir snarled suddenly.

Taylor sighed.

"Major Dave Taylor, 1st Lyngvi Reconnaissance unit, Special Warfare and Reconnaissance Service. United Kingdom, Earth. Coventry, originally, if you must know. Now, who are you?" he said icily.

Once again the Fenrir threw its head back and laughed, before pacing back and forth in front of Taylor and Llewellyn almost as if there was a sheet of glass preventing it from getting closer, flexing its claws constantly.

"Yes, I will answer that. You have impressed me, Taylor-prey, and you will be honoured to know the name of your hunter. I am the Warmaster Graav of the Clan Redjaw, and I will have your head as my trophy. But not today, I owe you that. You will see me again Taylor. Your hunt has begun."

With blinding speed, the wolf crouched and jumped, landing neatly on the roof and speeding away. The thumping in his chest made Taylor feel his heart had been replaced by some massive industrial engine. His legs began to quiver, and he quickly found himself sitting clumsily on the ground, drawing huge quantities of air into his lungs and waiting for his body to accept what had just happened. His ears were numb, and he couldn't tell if the close quarters explosions had ruined his hearing or if it was the effects of so much adrenaline. Taylor had the unshakeable feeling that he had just become a marked man.

Llewellyn exhaled loudly, the engineer quickly removing the detonator from the lump of high explosives in his hand. Still sat oddly on the cobbles, Taylor holstered his pistol and quickly reloaded his carbine.

"Lieutenant, tell me the Garrison has an officer's mess with a fully stocked bar."

"The Brigadier made it a priority as soon as he arrived, sir."

* * *

"I think we've got them on the run, Taylor. Reports are coming in from across the city – they're retreating to those damned shuttles. We gave them a bloody nose, no doubt about it! Holy crap, Taylor...you okay?" Hamilton said as Taylor and Llewellyn entered the governor's palace, hauling the wounded archer between them. All three men were covered in grey dust, two of them in varying degrees of blood as well and one of them soaked to the skin. Taylor looked exhausted and slightly pale.

"Oh, it's nothing a change of underwear and a stiff drink won't fix. Just one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, no biggie." Taylor said as Moffatt rushed forward to check on Sam.

"What the hell –"

"Ham, tell the men not to engage the shuttles. We don't have the fire power to take down their shields, but they sure as hell have the fire power to turn us into a smoking crater if they so choose." Taylor said as he wearily climbed the stairs to the central chamber.

"Are you serious? We can finally get to the plaza, surround them, clean lines of fire, and bring everything to bear on them-"

"Nick, a four hundred kilo naquadah-enhanced warhead fired by a 304 couldn't take one of those shuttles out in one shot. Ask Nesbitt if you don't believe me."

"It's true." Nesbitt said helpfully from the other side of the room, doing his best to tend to several of the injured.

"See? So what the hell chance do we have with fifty cals and a couple of AT-4s? I doubt even Llewellyn could breach their shields right now. All we'd be doing is inviting retribution after beating them – they have a twisted form of honour, and they've recognised that we won this battle. Right now, we need to quit while we're ahead. Look at what we've accomplished." Taylor began ticking things off on his fingers.

"We've got them to leave. We've reduced the Fenrir threat by a damn good number of wolves. We've got all new intel on the threat. We may have gained our first ally in the fight, and to top it all off we've had our first engagement against the Fenrir since becoming an independent operation – and it was, by all accounts, highly successful and with only two SWRS casualties. Why screw that up, give them a chance to take us out and restart their invasion? They're bugging out, and that's good enough for me – let them go."

Reluctantly, Major Hamilton acquiesced.

"All units, engage ground forces but do not pursue. Repeat, do not pursue. Hamilton out."

Taylor allowed himself to relax a little. The Fenrir knew they'd lost this battle, and his hunch had been right – they weren't willing to risk losing so many warriors or assets so early in their campaign, they were pulling out.

Sat in a chair in front of the large window, he half-listened as Hamilton received more reports of the Fenrir falling back to the central plaza, then watched as the first of the three shuttles lifted off. It was a sleek and cruel looking vehicle, it's forward swept, vaguely bat-like wings spreading to their full extent as it cleared the other two still grounded transports. Still hovering, the vehicle pivoted and rolled until it pointed almost straight upwards. With phenomenal acceleration, the red and black shuttle's engines flared bright white as it surged away from the ground. A deafening boom rolled over the city as the craft quickly punched through the sound barrier, soared into the sky and disappeared. Seconds later, there was the tiniest flash of a magenta hyperspace window in low orbit.

"Sir, I still say –" Llewellyn began, staring after the disappearing transport.

"For the last time, we are not going to use 'Airwolf' as a reporting name for those ships, Lieutenant. Deal with it."

"So what do we call them?"

"To be honest…I don't know."

"I always thought they looked like a Puddle Jumper designed by H. R. Giger." Llewellyn murmured. Taylor glanced at the engineer.

"I have no idea what the hell that means, Lieutenant…and it's too long."

"You know, that double-pronged nose always sort of reminded me of that plane Batman flew." Nesbitt said, wandering over to join in the conversation.

"What was it called?" Taylor asked.

"The Batwing, sir." Llewellyn offered.

"Well that's no good. Wolfwing? No. Packwing?" Taylor said, knowing the answer before he'd asked the question. Llewellyn's diplomatic yet unimpressed expression only confirmed it.

"You could always call them Talons."

Taylor and Llewellyn turned to stare at Nesbitt.

"What? Wolves have claws, or talons. And Talon…T for transport? You know, a little like the old NATO reporting names for Soviet aircraft in the Cold War? What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he offered defensively.

"I can't tell which is scarier, that it was Nesbitt who came up with the best name, or that this is the man who wanted the SWRS to be renamed UNIT." Taylor muttered.

Minutes later, the second shuttle lifted off. Taylor took that as his cue to leave and signalled Nesbitt, Moffatt and Halverson from around the room. The combat was essentially over.

"Ham – can you handle it from here? We're heading back to the gate. I'll coordinate our withdrawal from there and check in with Webber. See you in the mess – your round."

Hamilton grinned, nodded and gave Taylor a thumbs up without looking, keeping his concentration on the clean-up phase of the operation.

* * *

The storm had all but passed, and while the sky was still grey and threatening when they stepped outside, it was the brightest it had been all day, the rain reduced to a fine, sparse drizzle. Apart from the occasional distant burst of automatic fire, the skirmish seemed to be over. Casually, the five of them walked back to the gate.

"Damn. I just realised what this place reminds me of – it's been bugging me all day." Llewellyn said as they ambled through the streets.

"What's that then?" Halverson said casually.

"It's like an offworld version of renaissance Italy."

Halverson shot Llewellyn a disbelieving look.

"Don't give me that! Look at that building and tell me it's not late fifteenth century Florentine architecture." he said, pointing.

Halverson was shocked, her mouth hanging open as she tried to reconcile what she knew about the commando engineer and what had just come out of his mouth.

"Well, yes, but how did –" she started.

"I mean, I feel like I'm going to see Ezio jumping from one rooftop to another any second."

Turning, he saw Halverson glaring at him. It was a withering look that she had perfected many years before, and it had even been known to work on Taylor.

"You know, like in Assassin's Creed 2? It's...a computer game." he said meekly.

"I swear, you are the weirdest person I've ever met." she said, shaking her head in exasperation.

Hearing this, Llewellyn simply grinned, taking the comment as a compliment.

"What did you expect from the man whose most treasured personal effect is an Xbox?" Nesbitt said to Halverson, grinning.

They were nearly halfway back when Jarvis walked out of a street ahead of them.

"Major – most of our boys are back at the gate. Still got one Landy out in the field, but the other's ready to go through. Don't want to jinx it, but it looks like we gave the Fenrir a swift kick in the –" he began.

"Major Taylor sir! Single target sighted, moving north to the central plaza over the rooftops, eighty metres from your position. He's really going for it sir!" Taylor's radio crackled.

All of them quickly raised their weapons and looked around. Sprinting along one rooftop they could see a Fenrir moving at incredible speed. The only time they were faster, Taylor mused, was when they were on all fours.

The reason this Fenrir wasn't on all fours suddenly became apparent. It was a lot easier to hold a weapon when you had two limbs free.

"Crap! Move!"

The blue bolt of energy splashed against the cobbles where they had been, shattering them with superheated plasma. Taylor raised his carbine and sighted through the scope, firing off four shots at the Fenrir as it sped past, all of which fell short.

"Damn it!"

"Sir, allow me." said a deep Mancunian accented voice behind him. Taylor turned to see Jarvis bringing the AT-4 launcher he'd had slung over his back to his shoulder.

The shell streaked away, quickly overtaking the fleeing alien and slamming into the roof ahead of it. The blast tore the top of the building to shreds, raining splintered wood and shattered tiles and bricks on the street below. The Fenrir was instantly hurled backwards, its flailing body connecting brutally with the edge of the roof before bouncing off and falling to the street below. It landed with a sickening thud, lying limp and still as a corpse, its limbs at odd angles.

Moffatt, Taylor and Jarvis, now once again wielding his Minimi light machine gun, wandered cautiously over to the animal. Streams of thick black blood emerged from its shoulder and leg, matting the fur underneath and dripping to the cobbles.

"Careful, corporal. They're sneaky buggers."

As Moffatt bent down to inspect the animal, Taylor stood to one side, ready to put as many shots as needed into the Fenrir's head if it made any kind of move, but the damage looked too severe. Its armour was perforated by shrapnel and significant quantities of black fluid welled up out of several of the holes. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth while nearly opaque saliva pooled underneath, and most notably, its body was contorted.

"I'm guessing its dead?" Llewellyn said cautiously.

"To be honest Lieutenant, I don't know how much blood loss is fatal for a Fenrir. The corpses we had at Porton Down weren't exactly in the best condition or full of much blood – bullet holes tend to have that effect."

Taylor kept his carbine firmly aimed at the Fenrir's head.

"Corporal, tough as they are, this thing just endured a close range antitank missile detonation and a thirty or forty foot fall to a pretty damn hard stone floor. There is no way it could have survived that."

Moffat started to back away slowly.

"Uh, sir...I think it's still alive." she said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

General O'Neill checked his watch and sighed, one hand propping his head up on the edge of the map table. Even without the control room clock ticking inexorably towards the thirty-eight minute limit, he knew the Stargate was open and the Iris retracted, and had been for some time. Sergeant Gibson's frequent requests for status updates from the offworld teams had been met with terse "Standby" responses. Webber was standing in front of the control room, impatiently tapping his fingers on the railing of the metal balcony. O'Neill stood and wandered over to the Brigadier to tell him he was about to leave and return to the bickering diplomats when the puddle rippled. The United States Air Force general blinked at the sight that had just come through.

"For Christ's sake open that door now!"

The urgency and panic in Taylor's voice wasn't unfounded. A pair of incredibly powerful jaws lined with steely piercing teeth dangled perilously close to his legs. Taylor's hands weren't far from the cruel and vicious talons on the arm he held pinned to his chest – if he loosened his grip the wrong way they'd likely slice into his upper arm. The rest of his team and the two soldiers he'd conscripted to aid them looked equally uneasy with the parts of the Fenrir warrior they found themselves carrying – none of them had any idea how long it would be unconscious for, what effect contact with it or its blood might have on them, and about the only thing he was certain of was the mood the warrior would be in when it stirred - he was damn sure he wasn't the only one troubled by thoughts of the alien waking suddenly as they hauled it towards the Garrison's labyrinthine interior.

"Major! What the hell –" Webber began as he leaned on the railing of the balcony, staring at the cave's even concrete floor below. As the gatehouse's large blast door rumbled slowly open with the occasional metallic screech, the shocked guards backed up to the rough granite walls as eight pairs of combat boots pounded past with a mass of fur between them.

"Brigadier sir! We have a _live_ Fenrir prisoner that we need to get into containment before it wakes! And we don't know when the hell that'll be!" Taylor yelled as they hurriedly carried the heavy and dangerous alien past the control room and out of the gate chamber. O'Neill and Webber almost didn't notice the first of the two Land Rovers trundle through the gate shortly after them.

"See, I _knew_ you guys would find a mascot eventually." O'Neill said, beaming as he pointed at the open door through which Taylor's team had disappeared. He paused and looked at a definitely not amused Webber. "You didn't tell them the rule about bringing strays back with them, did you?"

Webber grunted at O'Neill's quip and moved quickly to where Gibson sat patiently at the console as the weary soldiers strolled back through the gate.

"Sergeant, I want this base ready to be locked down as best we are able at a moment's notice. Tell those men to shift their arses back through the Stargate, we are going to need every hand on security detail. Make sure all VIPs are confined to the briefing room with two guards outside, and before they start moaning, explain it's for their bloody safety. And for God's sake don't mention we've got a Fenrir on the base!" he snapped as he walked angrily out of the control room.

"Hope its house trained." O'Neill murmured as he left for the briefing room.

* * *

"Move move move! Get out of the way! Open the bloody door!" Taylor yelled at the shocked soldier running in front of him to clear the way. Even with eight of them carrying it, the Fenrir was heavy enough to require significant exertion, and none of them wanted to be holding it for much longer – he had the feeling they'd already pushed their luck.

"Sir, I just felt its leg twitch!" Moffatt shouted nervously, confirming his suspicion.

"And it's arm!" cried Lance-Corporal Graves, one of the soldiers assisting them.

"Just a few more seconds, corporals." Taylor replied as the soldier in front of him hurriedly opened the isolation room's reinforced steel door. Two more rushed to help him while the remaining guards readied their weapons.

Taylor could feel the dense, inhumanly powerful muscles in the animal's body tensing, and the claws near his arm were beginning to flex idly. The deep rumbling of a snarl was beginning to build. They had run out of time.

He risked a quick glance down at the alien animal's head, just in time to see the eyelids snap open and reveal reflective golden eyes. Even though they had no pupils, from the way they moved he was absolutely certain the eyes were focused intently on him.

"Everybody DROP IT!" Taylor screamed as they unceremoniously dumped the rapidly stirring werewolf metres from the heavily reinforced containment room's door. It rolled over and groggily pushed itself to its feet, idly backhanding a squaddie who was still too close. With only a little effort on the part of the Fenrir, the soldier was hurled across the room and slammed into the concrete wall with remarkable force. The loud, sickening crack and scream of pain suggested he wouldn't be leaving the infirmary for some time. Moffatt turned to check on the agonised soldier.

Taylor saw a number of guards tense and sensed they were about to open fire.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE! Nobody shoots without my command. Now back up, back up. Minimum four metres – these things are fast. I want every weapon kept trained on it. Moffatt?"

"Graves doesn't look good sir. His arm's definitely broken, probable concussion, bruised ribs and collarbone fracture too."

"Get him down to the infirmary ASAP. Everybody else stays."

The creature was beginning to wake fully now, using the wall to steady itself as it pushed itself to its feet, the remaining soldiers forming a wide semi-circle around it. It dwarfed the humans around it, all the while snarling and glaring at its human captors. He saw it fixate on a terrified private and narrow its eyes. Taylor quickly raised his carbine and aimed it straight at the Fenrir's chest.

The Fenrir was weakened and disoriented from its injuries, but recovering quickly, and he could see it rhythmically tense its muscles, clearly about to lunge and shred somebody with its claws.

"Ah-ah! Stay!" Taylor snapped. The wolf turned and glared at him, its lips curling in a slight snarl, but for the moment at least it stopped preparing to slaughter everybody in the room, focusing exclusively on Taylor.

"Now, I don't doubt you're ready to die for your race for the right reason – I've seen you lot fight – but something tells me you wouldn't serve," Taylor said, pretending to pause for breath as he racked his brain for the word Graav had used, hoping it had the desired effect, "_Ascendancy_ or your clan's honour by being shredded under the combined fire of a dozen assault rifles, am I right? Now, strip off the armour and walk into the cell, there's a good doggie."

Growling and fixing him with an intimidating stare, the wolf stood still.

"No, seriously, I'm not kidding. Any further hostile act and these men will shoot. I give the order, and these men will shoot. Blimey, if I sneeze the wrong way these men will shoot. Now, I'm guessing a pointless death as a prisoner of your own prey is pretty damn dishonourable. At least alive you stand a chance of escaping and regaining some of that glory. A cat in hell's chance, admittedly, but it's a chance."

It was often hard to read these creatures, not least because most of his experience with them involved running from them, shooting them or being shot at by them, but he was sure the Fenrir was deliberating. Slowly, angrily, it began to unfasten and pull pieces of its equipment and damaged armour off its body and drop them to the concrete floor.

Under threat of severe and immediate weight loss by the combined fire of the HK416, SA-80s, P90s and Minimi pointed at it, the now naked Fenrir reluctantly moved towards the open cell door and into the reinforced room. The guard started to heave it shut. Jarvis and Llewellyn were already assisting, while Taylor kept his carbine trained on the rapidly diminishing gap in case the unnaturally fast creature made a break for it.

As the guards slammed bolts home and secured the door with every lock they could find, Taylor relaxed, suddenly feeling exhausted, enervated and weighed down by all the gear he carried. Wearily, he pulled his earpiece out, lowered his rifle and slumped against the reinforced concrete wall, sliding down to the ground. After a few seconds, he noticed the rest of his team join him.

"Can we rest now?" Halverson asked as she sank to the floor next to Taylor.

"Don't see why not." Taylor said wearily from ground level.

"So…cup of tea?" Nesbitt said as he moved towards a nearby office chair before spotting the pile of discarded armour and equipment and heading over to take a look.

"Careful, I wouldn't put it past them to booby trap their own armour." Taylor said, wiping sweat, grime and a few specks of blood off his face. "I had something stronger in mind, only I'm still on duty."

Halverson smiled weakly.

"I had something more solid in mind. I'm starving." she said. Llewellyn nodded in emphatic agreement. "You do know you look like hell, right Dave?" she continued.

Taylor glanced down at himself. His fatigues were frayed and in places torn, and a crusty grey residue had collected where the dust of the collapsing buildings had mixed with rainwater. Black grime filled every crease and trench in his bruised flesh, including the dozens of tiny, shallow cuts covering his body. "Huh. So I do."

"We just had our first significant success against the Fenrir, didn't we?" she said.

"Yes. Yes we did." Taylor replied.

They all stared quietly at the sealed detention cell in front of them. The lack of exposed rock set the detention section aside from the rest of the base, replaced instead with the featureless slabs of reinforced concrete they had grown used to at Stargate Command. The door itself was heavy and tremendously well built from plate steel, adorned with so many locks and bolts it was almost comical. The only transparency was a small heavily reinforced polycarbonate strip, but they could hear the Fenrir prisoner pacing back and forth, and they could certainly hear it growling.

"You know that prisoner is probably an officer of some kind, or a higher rank than foot soldier at any rate, don't you Dave?" Halverson said casually.

"Huh? What makes you say that?"

"I've got this theory. Basic Fenrir foot soldiers wear something like a hide vest with a few scraps of metal plating, right? Some of them don't even have that – after all, they are covered in dense fur so I don't think being naked means the same to them. High ranking Fenrir seem to wear suits of elaborate armour and even personal shields. And this one," she said pointing conspiratorially at the now occupied holding cell, "was wearing higher quality hide, a decorated cuirass, pauldrons, greaves and vambraces. I have a suspicion that they have to earn every piece of their armour through either long service or promotion. Kind of fits...promotion means they're more 'useful' and worthy, so they're worth protecting more."

Taylor nodded thoughtfully.

"I'll buy it. Makes a lot of sense, actually. I encountered the leader today. He – well, I assume it was a him, or that the Fenrir even have hims and hers – "

"They do. Kelly told me the Fenrir bodies from the Battle of Lyngvi exhibited two distinct genders, in roughly equal numbers, almost indistinguishable externally." Halverson said helpfully.

"Right, well, _he_ called himself the 'Warmaster', but the creepiest thing was…he actually thanked me for killing his warriors. Said something about Ascendancy, blood chains…I don't know. I'm too tired to think properly."

Several faces turned to look at Taylor.

"They speak English?"

"I don't know about English, but it was definitely something I could understand."

Halverson thought about this for a second.

"Probably basic Goa'uld then, since it's the Milky Way's de facto mother tongue and lingua franca at the same time. It would be far more likely for them to have encountered and learned it, but you hear English. You know how messed up the gate's translation effect can be."

Taylor stared at her for a moment.

"Point is, I don't think it was 'speaking' it as much as mimicking it. Its mouth never moved, just sort of…gaped."

"Wait? Ascendancy? What is that?" Nesbitt asked.

"Maybe they meant Ascension? Or it could be something else entirely. You said something about 'blood chains', and the way it appreciated you killing its own kind?"

"Sorry Elise, I didn't actually stop to question the big bad wolf threatening to use me as his new chew toy." He said. Pushing himself to his feet, he addressed the room.

"Right, listen up. We need this Fenrir prisoner under heavy guard at all times. I'll draw up more concrete plans soon, but for now, absolutely nothing and nobody goes in or comes out of that cell – let our alien 'friend' stew for a while. I want at least four guards, with rifles, stationed here until further notice. Everybody else, dismissed."

Webber stalked angrily into the unfinished guardroom, glaring at 1LR's leader.

"Major Taylor, my office. Now."

* * *

Wearily but trying not to be insubordinate, Taylor stood at ease in front of Webber's desk, his carbine still hanging by his side.

"Have you lost your mind, Major? What in God's name were you actually thinking when you brought that damn wolf back here?" Webber said. He was sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair and glaring at Taylor. He never raised his voice, but his clipped tone and icy stare made it abundantly clear that he was furious.

"Sir?" Taylor said evenly. He preferred superiors who shouted and raged – the quiet treatment was surprisingly unnerving.

"Oh don't give me that nonsense. You know damn well that thing would be a grievous security risk even if this base was operating at one hundred percent – even if I had kindly been given the chance to authorise it being brought back. At this very moment we barely have a fifth of our assigned personnel, more than half of this damned place is still being built and we're so poorly equipped for our mission it just isn't funny. But to top it all off, today of all days, we have a dozen VIPs on base to contend with as well, so naturally you bring home the most dangerous alien you can find!"

Taylor stared Webber down, knowing he was treading dangerously close to insubordination. He'd only known him for a few weeks, but the impression Taylor had was that while Webber was a brusque, hard-nosed and frequently disagreeable officer, he most definitely was not a fool – Taylor just had to make his case.

"With respect sir, that thing in there is a living, breathing Fenrir prisoner of war. Possibly an officer, according to Elise. One semi-successful hour of interrogation could quite easily double what we know about our enemy, and that alone makes it one hell of a strategic asset, not to mention the benefits of medical study on something other than a corpse. Frankly, I thought it was an opportunity that was far too important to pass up and far too unlikely to happen again. It practically fell into our lap, sir! After we knocked it out with a rocket launcher, that is."

Webber was still fuming, but Taylor was fairly sure he would back down.

"And just what kind of security precautions are you planning on taking, Major?" Webber said. Taylor took a deep breath.

"Minimum five man guard, round the clock, none of them armed with anything less than full assault order. All doors to containment area to be kept closed and locked at all times, only one door permitted to be open at any given time. Since that cell has a polycarbonate viewing port, a visual check will be made every fifteen minutes in addition to having one person monitor it on closed circuit television. Entry to the prisoner would require express authorisation from you, me or Major Hamilton once he's finished on P7S-267."

After a few seconds, Webber nodded reluctantly, but still glaring and fuming.

"Until such time as better arrangements can be suggested, they will have to suffice. Make no mistake, Major, I am not happy about this, and I will order that thing destroyed if it so much as coughs in an offensive manner. We hardly have any combat personnel to spare, and in case you'd forgotten, a large portion of this base's extremely limited armament supply is currently offworld in the hands of an untrained medieval population." Webber said.

"Sir, they were absolutely necessary! Without them – " Taylor began.

"Major! I am not suggesting that the weapons were improperly used – though I expect your report to make very interesting reading – I am saying that if we lose any more, our own staff will need to improvise weapons from what they can find lying around. Somehow I don't think the Fenrir will be intimidated by squaddies wielding rebar and power tools. We are short enough on personnel – what the hell use is a frontline combat facility without weapons?"

Webber sighed.

"One more thing, Major. We have VIPs on base. I would rather they don't learn that they're sharing a secure underground facility with a Fenrir prisoner. It might prove to be an ace in the hole in these…negotiations, but it could just as easily turn out to be a colossal liability and threat. General O'Neill is already aware of its presence, but I think we can trust him not to say anything…inflammatory. On this topic, at least."

"Well, since we're short-handed, any combat personnel not offworld will be eligible for guard duty – even higher ranks." Taylor continued.

Webber stopped and stared at Taylor. Despite something of an acquired immunity to threatening behaviour after almost two decades of frontline, behind the lines and generally nerve shredding black ops military service, Taylor found himself intimidated by the Brigadier.

"Oh, I think not. You're not squirming out of the talks or the handover meeting, not after this stunt. Tomorrow morning at 0800 hours you will be waiting outside the briefing room in your dress uniform - your attendance was specifically requested by General Bullock. Get yourself to the infirmary, you're bleeding on my floor. Dismissed."

* * *

"All that new Fenrir equipment…Dr Nesbitt must have thought all his Christmases had come at once! Something tells me we're not going to see much of him over the next few days. Or weeks."

Halverson paused, smiling weakly at Llewellyn.

"I know, I was there." She said.

"He's got no idea what half of the stuff does." Llewellyn continued.

"Yes, I know – I was there. Gareth, I've been thinking. I think we need to go back."

Llewellyn looked up, his skin glowing from the recent hot shower he'd almost been ordered to have. The mess was barely furnished, but it was serving hot food, and to him that was all that mattered at the present moment.

"Where? P7S-267?" he said as he shovelled a forkful precariously overloaded with sausage, chips and baked beans into his mouth, occasionally pausing to wash the fried food down with steaming tea.

Halverson shot him a slightly disgusted glare, a forkful of curry and rice hovering above her plate.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to the military approach to food…and if you mean Lhoaka, yes. Now that the immediate crisis is dealt with, we need to return. I noticed things there that raised a few questions."

His meal temporarily knocked off the top spot in the list of things that deserved his complete attention, Llewellyn gazed back at Halverson.

"Such as?"

"I'm sure they recognised the Fenrir. That in itself wasn't so remarkable – we know pretty much every culture we've yet encountered within about fifty light years of the Void Prison incorporate the Fenrir into their myths, usually in a big and bad way. What's odd is that while they were understandably panicking about the actual attack, few of them seemed to be reacting to the Fenrir themselves as if the end of all things was upon them, which is typically what we've seen everywhere else. So when we had a lull, I did a little research. I didn't get anything concrete out of it, just the feeling we're missing something about the Lhoakans."

"Wait, do you mean to say an offworld society is hiding something from the Tau'ri? This is unprecedented!"

Halverson glared at him.

"Yeah, look, I'm not sure the Brigadier'll consider a feeling that you're missing something a good enough reason to dial the gate. Especially not with the base in its current state." Llewellyn said with a grunt. Barely satisfied, the engineer resumed the cycle of rapidly loading food into his mouth. "But I'd lay money on the SWRS definitely going back there in some capacity, and soon probably."

"Why? You fought the Fenrir off, job done. Surely the military is done with that planet?"

Llewellyn shook his head.

"Oh no. Even if we let them keep the guns, there'll be a huge clean-up operation, lots of Fenrir corpses and equipment that could be of use to us, probably some more demolitions of dangerous buildings to carry out – a little more controlled this time though – and I'll bet you there's already a plan to give the Lhoakans better weapons, or maybe schematics to make their own."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea." Halverson said, concerned. Llewellyn wasn't listening.

"They'll also need better, proper training on the guns we've loaned them. And besides, if they've got trinium, we need it, and the Fenrir want it. So that means we need to help the Lhoakans defend themselves if only to deny the Fenrir a source of trinium. So there'll be plenty of opportunities to go back eventually."

Halverson shook her head, her appetite forgotten.

"I'm sorry Gareth, I don't think that's good enough. Something in my mind is screaming at me – there's something I saw, or heard, or read that's very significant, I just haven't made the connection or found the context. I think it's important, I need to go back while it's still fresh in my brain. It's giving me a damn headache! And if you're right, I'm not entirely sure I like the Garrison's plans for the Lhoakans."

"Okay, look. As I hear it, the Major's stuck in meetings for the foreseeable future. I'm almost certainly going to be one of the first to go back, and probably soon, since I'm the most senior engineer authorised for offworld duty this base currently has, and I've already been there and dealt with the people. I'm pretty sure the Brigadier would be okay with a…cultural liaison coming along for the ride. Anything that can strengthen our ties with the Lhoakans, really. So how about we go and request exactly that?"

Though Halverson nodded her head, Llewellyn was confused as to why she did it so reluctantly. He shrugged it off and guzzled the rest of his tea.

* * *

Taylor had walked slowly into the infirmary after securing his weapons and stopping at his quarters to shower and change. He was feeling remarkably fatigued now, sore and in more pain than he had previously realised since the adrenaline had worn off and the immediate threat was gone. He was sat on the edge of one of the few beds. Moffatt, still the ranking medical operative on the under-staffed base, had apologised profusely for making him wait so long, but Taylor had assured her it wasn't a problem, especially after he saw the cases monopolising her time. Graves was fast asleep, his arm in a sling, lying on one of the beds.

The other held Yates.

"The fléchettes absolutely tore his leg to shreds." Moffatt said as she began inspecting Taylor's minor but numerous wounds, following his gaze to the bed containing the deathly pale, eerily still Lieutenant and the IVs and dressings that covered him. "Frankly, it's like mincemeat down there, he needs medical attention that I can't give him, and that we simply don't have the capability for here. Dr Lam at the SGC should be able to at least stabilise him – if not, they can send him to the Air Force Academy Hospital, or more likely ship him to Selly Oak back home. He'll need really extensive reconstructive surgery if he's to stand the slightest chance of keeping his leg, but I'm afraid I can't see it happening. Amputation would be simpler and probably kinder in the long run. Either way, barring good prosthetics and rehabilitation, his front line career in the Army is probably over."

"Something tells me he'll be spending quite some time at Headley Court." Taylor said gazing at the severely injured junior officer, before turning to face Moffatt as she began cleaning the cuts on his arm. "You coping okay?"

"Yes sir." Moffatt said, forcing a weak smile before taking a deep breath. "Actually, no, sir. Permission to speak freely?"

"Always."

"I'm not coping well at all. We're lucky we've only had a couple of casualties, but it could so easily have been worse. I'm not a doctor, not yet, I'm just a medic, and frankly, I'm running the base's entire medical department almost single-handed. It's just as well we've got a fraction of our staff, but seriously, whose idea was it to declare this base operational before it's even got a chief medical officer? I'm a combat medical technician, and a corporal, and the well-being of ninety people, combatants included, is on my shoulders? Whose idea was that?"

Taylor shook his head.

"I don't know. I really don't know, but what I do know is that somebody's been interfering with this op for a while." Taylor said, dropping his voice into an almost whispered conspiratorial tone.

"Sir?" Moffatt asked, quietly and slightly incredulously as she applied dressings to the worst of the cuts.

"Webber told me. There's somebody high up pulling strings. I don't know if they're military or civilian, but they're diverting funds, swamping us with bureaucratic insanity, delaying shipments and making sure key personnel have been reassigned to the arse end of nowhere. Anything to interfere with this project, make us look bad. And, as much as I'd love to pin it on that old goat Bullock, he's our most fervent supporter. Point is, I think we need to watch our backs even from our own people."

Moffatt worked in silence, the uncomfortable nature of the conversation driving her to focus intently on her work. None of Taylor's injuries were bad, but there were plenty of them.

"Still, there's some good news." Taylor said after a while. "Webber's pulled some strings of his own. He's had our next supply and personnel transfer brought forward a week. So, with any luck, you should be replaced as CMO as early as tomorrow."

"That," Moffatt said, with a light and obviously relieved tone, "is very good news sir. _Very_ good news. Okay, I'm finished here. I've cleaned them all up, and dressed the worst ones. I'd recommend you take some painkillers and get some rest."

Taylor jumped off the bed, pulling his top back on and shaking his head.

"Not just yet. Something I want to do first."

* * *

The guardroom was one of the few areas of the base deserving of the neat, angular concrete walls he remembered from the SGC rather than the tunnels simply cut from the granite bedrock and fitted with strip lights that constituted the rest of the Garrison.

Jarvis and Llewellyn had already informed him they'd worked out a provisional roster and plan for the Fenrir prisoner's security detail. He'd cast his eye over it later to see if any changes needed making, but he was sure it would be good enough for the time being. The first shift were present, two of them seated, two standing guard at the entrance and one patrolling. Taylor checked to make sure the security cameras were recording – he was relieved to find security cameras had even been installed.

He had neither the desire nor the intention to open the heavily reinforced cell door, and the interrogation room was weeks away from being even remotely useable. So he dragged a chair from behind the guard desk to a point in front of the cell door.

"So, what do we call you?" Taylor said to the speaker grille located under the door's viewing port. A faint snarl issued from within the cell. "Oh, don't be like that. We didn't kill you, did we? I mean, almost, yes, but you're alive…for now. And we know you have names – I even know that your boss is called Graav."

He was answered by silence.

"Right, if you won't tell us your name, we'll pick one. Suggestions, lads?" Taylor said, addressing the guards.

"Digby."

"Lassie?"

"Wellard."

"Dogmeat!"

Taylor smiled.

"I know. Fido. Right, Fido. The more you tell us, the easier life gets for you. Tell us enough and we might even feed you."

* * *

Vibrations spread through the sprawling concrete floor of the gate chamber as the ring continued to rotate, registering as a bass rumbling emanating throughout the Garrison. Sergeant Gibson sighed and calmly grasped her shuddering coffee mug as the fifth chevron encoded the data for the constellation Scutum. It always got worse at the fifth chevron.

"Fifth chevron engaged." She said, her tone jaded but still professional. Having briefly arrested the escapee mug, she casually reached out and caught a clipboard in mid-air as it rattled off the desk. As a former Aerospace Battle Manager with broad experience, including directing aircraft while enemy artillery rained down on her position, very little fazed her.

"If Whitehall can't extend the funding to install frequency dampers, you'd think they could at least afford to send us some bloody rubber mats and coasters." Webber grumbled from his now habitual position at the map table behind her. He muttered obscenities under his breath as his neatly laid out papers continued reshuffling themselves and pencils rolled onto the concrete floor.

"Yes sir." Gibson said carefully. "Sixth chevron engaged."

"I hate early morning dial-ins." Webber grumbled again as he peered out of the slanting, wire reinforced windows to view the small group assembled on the cave floor, slowly raising a cup of steaming coffee to his mouth as he watched them mill about. A thought occurred to him, and he grinned slyly. "Still, I can't think of a better wake-up call for those bloody bureaucrats than shaking the whole base."

"You wanted to see me sir?"

The Brigadier looked around to see Major Taylor climbing the stairs into the control room. Webber took in Taylor's appearance. While he was wearing No.2 service dress as ordered, the effect was offset by light bruising and scores of tiny crimson lines and specks dotting his visible flesh, the worst hidden behind discrete plasters and occasional small dressings. Each of the apparently dozens of shallow, mostly insignificant cuts had been caused by tiny shards of stone showering the less protected parts of his body while running from the Fenrir the day before, some even piercing his fatigues.

"I take it the infirmary gave you a clean bill of health."

"Well enough, sir. I feel like I went ten rounds with David Haye and I'm pretty sure Moffatt exhausted the base's supply of plasters on me, but nothing serious enough to get me out of the talks. Turns out you can't bribe her to claim you've got broken ribs."

Webber ignored Taylor's attempt to lighten the mood. With the familiar sound of rasping stone, the inner track of the Stargate trundled around, finally stopping when the only unique glyph on the ancient ring, Lyngvi's point of origin symbol, was directly underneath the top chevron.

"Seventh chevron is engaged, and locked."

The vibrations immediately ceased as the gate whined and a furious vortex of white energy, tinged with blue, erupted into the cave. It receded as quickly as it had appeared, transforming into an inviting, gently rippling event horizon. Gibson turned, and Webber nodded tersely as he strode over to the communication station.

"Stargate Command, this is Lyngvi Garrison. Transmitting IDC." Gibson said into her headset.

"Uh, roger that, Lyngvi. IDC confirmed, Iris retracting. According to our schedule we're due to be dialling _you_ in three and a half hours for a cargo shipment and data exchange. What can we do for you? Did you need to speak to the general?" Harriman's tinny voice responded almost immediately. Webber stepped up to the microphone stalk, motioning for Gibson to let him take over the conversation.

"Negative Chief, it's nothing that urgent. We have a casualty from an engagement yesterday that we don't have the staff or facilities to treat properly, a Lieutenant Yates. He's stable, but he'll need more than we can offer here. Are we free to send him through?"

There was a pause before Harriman responded.

"Standby please. That should be okay, sir, though if you would like to wait a couple of minutes, I've sent for a medical team to handle things on this side."

"Very considerate Chief. While we have the gate open and a few minutes to kill, I'd like to proceed with the weekly data burst. One less thing to worry about later, and I have a few additional requests for the supply transfer later."

"That should be fine sir. I'll just set it up."

A few seconds later, a message window flashed on the monitor in front of Gibson.

"Handshake protocol completed." She said. "SGC server is ready, bitrate is good. Starting upload."

"Do it. Now, if you'll excuse me, Major Taylor and I have an eight hour meeting with a half dozen political and military top brass to suffer through. Alert me if anything happens."

"Yes sir."

"_Anything_, Sergeant…I don't care if it's because the mess has run out of decaf, I want you to pull me out of that meeting to deal with it."

"Absolutely, sir." Gibson said without turning around, the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips.

Webber turned and moved to the map table where Taylor was standing at ease. The Brigadier irritably motioned for him to relax.

"I'm planning on sending your team back to P7S-267, today." Webber said. Taylor began to speak, but Webber abruptly raised his hand to cut him off. "I need to wait until I get approval from Whitehall and the necessary additions to the supply shipment we've got coming later before I can confirm. On top of that, I'd like to wait until Major Hamilton's team has returned and given me their reports."

"That's excellent sir. I hope – " Taylor began.

"You won't be going with them." Webber said tersely. "Neither will Doctor Nesbitt, since he's asked to remain due to the volume and importance of his work here. If I get the go ahead, I'll be putting Lieutenant Llewellyn in command for this one."

"Yes sir." Taylor said, hiding his disappointment as he turned to follow Webber out of the control room. It wasn't that he didn't think Llewellyn couldn't handle it, he simply wanted any excuse available to get out of the meeting.

* * *

"Hey, Doc! Thought you might want to take a look at this. MoD had the blokes at Porton Down produce a small experimental run of 'em last month. The first batch came through with the supply shipment this morning for us to test in the field."

Irritably, Halverson looked up from her desk and the chaotic field of open textbooks and scribbled notes that covered it. Llewellyn and Jarvis were in her office, the huge Sergeant standing with his hands clasped behind his back a few steps behind the smiling Lieutenant, but what immediately drew her attention was the small, long metallic object the engineer held proudly between thumb and forefinger for her to see.

Despite her civilian nature, she'd seen Taylor and Jarvis handle them often enough to know what it was – a 5.56mm cartridge, but with one critical difference. The brass casing was unchanged, but where she expected to see the pointed copper bullet, she saw a gleaming, seemingly polished silver one.

"Of course, they're bloody expensive to make, so there's only one hundred and twelve in existence right now…" Llewellyn continued.

"Oh, no." she groaned. "Tell me they didn't! Tell me they aren't that stupid they actually made silver bullets? I mean c'mon! I specifically told them the whole idea of werewolves being harmed by silver bullets is a modern addition to the myth – it only cropped up in eighteenth century France for God's sake, it can't possibly have any relevance to the Fenrir! But no, those idiot bureaucrats have to go ahead and waste what little funding we have anyway. Why hire experts if you don't listen to them? I swear, one day…what?"

"Told you." Llewellyn said to Jarvis, beaming in his usual annoyingly ebullient manner. Even Jarvis was struggling to hide a grin, a rare sight on his face. "You owe me ten quid."

"Why does he owe you ten quid? I said, why does he owe you ten quid, Gareth?" Halverson snapped, standing up suddenly from her desk. Her glare could have burned through steel.

"And if you'll remember, I told you this was a bad idea. Sir." Jarvis said, every trace of the grin vanished as he grudgingly pressing the ten pound note into the lieutenant's hand and hastily backed towards the door. Halverson advanced on the pair.

"I'll leave you two to it…" Jarvis said as he exited quickly, the smile quickly melting off Llewellyn's face as he realised what had just happened. He raised his hands in placation.

"It's not silver, it's _trinium_! I'm sorry, I thought it'd be a laugh!" He explained hurriedly as the furious anthropologist moved closer.

"What?" Halverson said, mellowing slightly and staring once again at the experimental round.

"I said its trinium, see? Trinium carbide, to be precise. Given how tough the Fenrir are, the MoD were hoping that trinium-tipped rounds might have the penetration to actually do some damage. See, the normal copper and steel bullet just doesn't hit them very hard or go very deep, that's why we need a dozen or so to take one of 'em down…you're going to slap me, aren't you?"

"I'm thinking about it. Other than to wind me up and win stupid bets with Sergeant Jarvis…why are you telling me this?"

"I'm trying to show you why we need the Lhoakans to give us their trinium. The possibilities for body armour are pretty exciting as well. And we just might be getting it now – the mission's on."

* * *

"I'd have thought you'd be more enthusiastic about this. It was mainly your idea, after all."

Halverson turned and gazed at Llewellyn as the Stargate began to dial. Behind them, Moffatt and Jarvis were double-checking their supplies and equipment.

"I am, Gareth. I just…I don't particularly like their plans for the Lhoakans. I think it's wrong."

"Who's plans?" Moffatt asked, grunting with the effort of shrugging the heavy, oversized backpack on to her shoulders. Jarvis casually reached out to steady the corporal just as it looked like she might pitch forwards from the excessive bulk. The good news was that they wouldn't have to be carrying the packs for long.

"The MoD, the SWRS…the Brigadier's."

Llewellyn smiled.

"C'mon Doc. You must understand it was going to happen with or without you. You know what's at stake. At least this way you get a say in things, no matter how small."

Jarvis snorted.

"Ha! _A_ say? Since when did she ever stop at saying just one thing?"

"You're not so big I won't slap you. And don't think I've forgotten about earlier." Halverson muttered as Moffatt and Llewellyn smiled at the exchange. Fiddling with the remote control software in his tablet, Llewellyn turned to watch as the Garrison's first two brand new 'Sumpter' Platoon Equipment Carriers moved forward. The electrically powered and motivated vehicles were simplified licence-built clones of the SGC's Field Remote Expeditionary Devices, both of them heavily loaded with medical supplies, weapons, ammunition and more. Satisfied that the two robots were working well, he turned his attention back to Halverson and Jarvis.

"Aw, he's just grumpy cos I wouldn't let him take anything bigger than a carbine. Even though the rest of us are just taking side arms." Llewellyn said as the ground began to tremble. The Stargate was nearing the end of its dialling cycle and the ground was beginning to shake yet again.

"Seriously sir, it's not too late to at least grab some P90s, if nothing else." Jarvis complained. He would have sounded petulant if it wasn't for his bass growl of a voice.

"Sergeant, this is a non-combat mission on allied territory, and given the hiding we gave them it's unlikely the Fenrir will attack again so soon. We've got side-arms, your rifle and my explosives. Nothing else. We've got enough to carry as it is." Llewellyn said, indicating the heavy packs everybody was wearing, and the two heavily loaded PECs.

Jarvis scowled, but nodded. Next to him, Moffatt carefully bent down to pick up a large case of medical equipment in each hand.

"I'm just incredibly relieved I'm no longer the ranking medical officer on base. Dr Nelson's welcome to the infirmary…I'm happier to be allowed off-world again without it being an emergency."

The Stargate burst into life, flooding the cave with blue-white light. Though the Garrison had only been operational for a few days, it was already a little odd hearing Sergeant Gibson's voice come over the loudspeaker rather than Webber's.

"1LR, you are cleared to proceed. We'll be expecting your scheduled dial-in and sit-rep in four hours. Best of luck."

"So," Halverson murmured as they made their final checks, looking towards the inviting event horizon rippling in front of them, "this is your first off-world mission in command isn't it?"

"Yup." Llewellyn said, beaming as he tapped the remote that set the two PECs trailing them at a perfectly set distance. "C'mon then. Let's go and be all diplomatic."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks for being patient folks. Here are the final chapters of "Baptism of Fire, Part 2"_

**CHAPTER 4**

Angled by the wind, cold rain pattered incessantly onto the ancient ring. It trickled over the mottled grey casing and pooled in the intricate designs engraved in the naquadah. From these recesses the collected rainwater streamed off the glowing chevrons and onto the four figures emerging from the event horizon.

"Ah!" Halverson cried, dropping her bags and jumping as chill water streamed off the top chevron and hit the back of her head. "It went right down my back! I really hate that!"

"You know, that's why these things have hoods, Doc," Llewellyn said, indicating the windproof DPM smocks they all wore. He glanced back at the vertical puddle they had all just emerged from, and then down at the distinctly more horizontal one they were all standing in with a faint expression of amusement. They hadn't noticed the shallow depression in front of the Stargate yesterday, and it was only obvious now because it was flooded. It had clearly formed from being well travelled, constantly worn down by feet, hooves and cart wheels coming and going through the gate over a long period of time. With the ground composed of hard, rounded cobblestones, that was an impressive feat indicative of centuries of use.

The large courtyard that served as the home of the Stargate and its attendant DHD was empty now, the crates and barrels they'd seen yesterday all gone. The raised beds for flowers and plants remained, a couple of them wrecked and spilling their contents onto the cobbles, otherwise leaving the courtyard bare save for scattered drifts and piles of rubble.

The cobblestones glistened, dark under the near perpetual rainfall, some fully submerged by puddles and the cracks between all of them filled with water. The rain they had experienced yesterday had clearly been nothing more than a light shower by comparison.

"Does it ever stop raining here?" Moffatt asked, stepping aside as the first of the eight-wheeled Sumpter robot vehicles trundled through the burbling event horizon, heavily laden with cases, ammunition boxes and olive green crates with yellow lettering stencilled on the sides. Llewellyn parked the robot as the second Platoon Equipment Carrier appeared, similarly laden, its electric motors also whining as it emerged from the puddle and took up position alongside the first.

"Doesn't look like it," Jarvis said.

"So basically it's Planet Wales, right Gareth?" Halverson said, grinning slyly at Llewellyn as she popped her hood up and stooped to gather her bags again.

"Nah. The rain's not horizontal, is it?" he said, nonplussed.

"True. And I haven't seen a single sheep yet," she replied.

"Don't go there, Doc," Llewellyn said, squinting upwards at the dark grey ceiling of cloud and then glancing at the two Sumpters parked behind him. The Stargate howled as the event horizon flared bright white and evaporated, the chevrons instantly dimming to their usual dull jasper hue.

"This weather's a lot heavier than we expected. Sergeant, give us a hand with these – we don't want to get the cargo trays flooded. These beauties have got their carrying capacity just about maxed out as it is, no sense adding a few litres of rainwater." Llewellyn began to pull a dark olive drab tarpaulin from the back off the Sumpter and dragged it over the crates, securing it at the front. Jarvis set his bags down on the least drenched spot he could find and followed suit.

"The rain's good for one thing," Jarvis said cryptically as he worked.

"No fires…" Moffatt murmured, scanning the city.

Lhoaka seemed at once the same and completely different to how they'd left it. Jarvis was right - the rainfall had obviously helped put out the fires raging across the city, but with so many buildings damaged or reduced to spreading piles of wrecked stone and shattered timbers the shape, face and spirit of the city seemed to have changed. Without the chaos and pounding adrenaline of battle surrounding them, Lhoaka felt like a different place – the stark reality of what they were seeing and the aftermath of what had been merely a small, aborted Fenrir raid hit home.

"Guys…" Halverson said quietly, quietly indicating the street beyond the courtyard.

In the eighteen hours since the Fenrir attack, the Lhoakans had evidently already begun the arduous, torturous process of recovery and rebuilding, but slowly and with sombre respect. Men worked in gangs to clear the rubble from collapsed buildings, but slowly and carefully, as if they were looking for something they desperately did not want to find.

Wooden carts pulled by creatures that appeared to be mules ambled through the streets, led or driven by people who looked physically and emotionally exhausted. All the carts were headed in the same direction and all were loaded with the same long, motionless shapes wrapped in sheets, each of them between five and six feet long.

"My God… I had no idea it was this bad. Look at all this destruction," Moffatt breathed.

"I didn't realise the Fenrir had killed so many," Llewellyn murmured at the sight of the wagons loaded with bodies.

"I don't think they did, sir," Moffatt said. "At least not directly. With so many collapsed buildings, who knows how many were crushed, or hit by rubble? Then there were the fires started by Fenrir weapons, and we all saw the panic yesterday – I dread to think how many that claimed."

"Stampede," said Jarvis, knowing it was the word that Moffatt hadn't wanted to say.

Moffatt nodded sombrely. "Suddenly, the amount of medical supplies we've brought with us seems completely inadequate," she said.

"Well, look at it this way - at least we brought some, and that is way better than none, Corporal – we can still help these people, and in more ways than one," Llewellyn said as he finished covering his Sumpter, eyeing the crates of weapons and ammunition beneath the rainproof material.

"Help them yes, but on their terms, not ours. We shouldn't be trying to mutate them into some twisted clone of our own culture," Halverson added, her tone more than a little defensive.

Jarvis finished fastening the rain cover over his Sumpter. "No problem. I'm sure if you explain that politely to the Fenrir when they next show up, they'd be more than willing to wait a few centuries until these guys have the firepower to be a credible threat to them," Jarvis growled angrily.

Halverson turned to argue with the big sergeant, but just as she opened her mouth to unleash an impassioned rant, Llewellyn quickly cut her off with a raised hand that swiftly became a casually pointing finger. Halverson followed the digit's direction, looking towards the courtyard's entrance.

"They said the Way-Circle had ignited, but I didn't believe you'd be back so soon," a familiar voice drifted across the courtyard over three sets of wet and muffled footsteps.

"Sub-Captain Waldroch, it's good to see you!" Llewellyn said loudly.

The Lhoakan militia officer approached, flanked by a pair of crossbow-wielding guards. His once-perfectly polished and elaborately engraved cuirass was now scuffed, dented and chipped, the gleaming silver replaced with muddied, dulled metal and dried splatter marks in an ominous ruddy brown colour. Besides damage and wear, his uniform had nevertheless changed. The helmet he wore bore a much more elaborate crest than they had previously seen on him, and he now wore a teal cloak made of a thick, almost woollen material that stopped just short of ground level. Whatever the fabric was, it had apparently been oiled or waxed to better repel the perpetual rainfall and embroidered around the edges with the swirling, complex designs found so often in Lhoakan culture. He stopped a few metres away and smiled weakly at the team standing in front of the now dormant Stargate.

"Actually, I'm no longer a Sub-Captain. As of this morning, I am First Captain Waldroch." His face was tired and artificially aged, and he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. Despite his obvious exhaustion and the psychological and physical trauma of the last day, he forced himself to remain upright and courteous.

"_First_ Captain, eh? What's that, OF-2? I suppose I have to salute you now! That's brilliant, and well deserved. Well done!" Llewellyn beamed, unable to see a wide-eyed Halverson surreptitiously shaking her head at him under her hood. Moffatt coughed nervously and apologetically while Jarvis very deliberately cleared his throat in the Commando Engineer's direction with the bare minimum of tact.

"Actually, I'm afraid not, Lieutenant. My promotion, while of course very welcome, has come about purely out of necessity, not merit on my part. The city's militia suffered grievous losses in the attack, including many officers. We lost two Grand Captains, perhaps five First Captains and several Sub-Captains. My increased duties, command and responsibility were expedited because there simply is nobody else available. But thank you for the kind sentiment all the same."

As Waldroch turned to greet Jarvis and Moffatt, Llewellyn screwed his eyes shut and pursed his mouth at his own offensive stupidity.

Halverson leaned a little closer. "Didn't get the vaccine for foot-in-mouth disease then?" she whispered without looking at him.

Waldroch stepped back and smiled at the team. "It's good to see you all again. To what do we owe the honour? Is there some way we can repay you for your aid?"

"Uh, actually Captain, we've come to help you. Again. I mean, if you'll let us. If you want us to help, that is," Llewellyn said, stammering nervously after his first faux pas.

"We've brought medical supplies to treat any wounded you may have, though I admit we don't have much to spare," Moffatt piped up quickly from behind the Lieutenant, hoping to help Llewellyn out by taking the pressure off him for a moment.

"Yeah, also got some new guns and ammo for you, and so long as we get the ones we lent you back, these ones are yours to keep," Jarvis said bluntly, patting a crate on the nearest Sumpter.

"Also, we're going to show you – by which I mean your engineers and scientists, that is… not that I'm saying you wouldn't get it – how to improve your own weapons and probably other technology. But not force you, just… you know. And we're not saying your weapons are rubbish, it's just that they're rubbish against _Fenrir_. But then ours are too… but we're not fobbing our crap guns off on you… oh boy," Llewellyn said, rubbing his forehead anxiously.

Halverson turned to Jarvis while Waldroch tried to decipher Llewellyn's garbled words. "He's heading into 'bucket of ears' territory, so get ready to shoot him," she growled at the hulking NCO.

She turned back to face Waldroch, missing a rare grin on Jarvis's face. "The Lieutenant means to say he has scientific texts that your experts can read, if they choose and fully understand the consequences, to give you a slight edge against another Fenrir attack," she said in a loud and clear voice.

Waldroch smiled. It was the first truly happy expression on his face that they had seen, not one forced by circumstance or tempered by tragedy. "Grace of Daphell! Uh… I mean, in that case, it is probably best that you see the Lord Governor. He will definitely want to hear of these developments. And I think perhaps I had better send for more men to assist you with your… carts," he said, eyeing the unusual design of the two Sumpter PECs behind the team with barely disguised curiosity and disbelief, "I had heard you possessed carts that do not require mules to pull them, but still, I would think there must be somebody to drive them onwards. Surely you have not pushed them yourselves?"

Llewellyn breathed a sigh of relief, very glad to be back in his element. "Ah, well, it's no bother really. Look!" Llewellyn beamed, instantly relaxing. He tapped some simple commands into the PEC remote control software on his tablet.

At the Welsh engineer's command, the two Sumpters pirouetted neatly on the spot, their heavy duty high-torque electric motors whining. As the two transport robots returned to their original positions, Llewellyn tapped more commands into his tablet, and the two vehicles lurched forward slightly before rolling evenly to a fixed distance of three metres behind the tablet and its user. Llewellyn moved around a little, gleefully demonstrating that no matter where he moved, the robots stayed precisely three metres away from him. Waldroch was astonished, he and his two attendant guards involuntarily taking steps back. One of the guards raised his crossbow nervously.

"No, it's alright. See," he said, "we call them Sumpters, or Platoon Equipment Carriers. They're not carts, not as such, they're what we call 'unmanned electric ground vehicles'. Top speed of twenty miles per hour unloaded with a twenty mile range on a full charge."

"Gareth…"

"Can carry up to a five hundred and forty kilo payload on an off-road track, up a one in six hill, through snow or through half a metre of water thanks to eight twenty-five inch low pressure tyres."

"Gareth."

"This remote control has a range of fifty metres, and they've got on-board processors capable of executing an autonomous follow mode to reduce user input, all-points sonar and infrared terrain awareness for obstacle avoidance… pretty cool eh?" Llewellyn said happily. Waldroch just looked intensely confused.

"Gareth! I don't think he's after the sales pitch. And with all due respect to the Captain, I don't think he understood a word you just said, because I think _I_ only understood half of it," Halverson said, lightly admonishing him as she smiled apologetically to Waldroch, her expression imploring patience.

"I know, I know! I'm just glad to be able to talk about something I know and without ramming another Size Ten combat boot in my gob in the process." He turned to Waldroch. "Don't mind me, I'm just geeking out. I'm betting you never saw our Landies in action yesterday, eh?" He grinned.

Halverson closed her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. "Captain, what the Lieutenant is trying – and _failing_ – to say is that they're just machines. They don't need mules or horses or any other animal to pull them and they don't need drivers because they have an internal mechanism that does the same job by turning their wheels for them and guiding them."

Waldroch looked mildly relieved but still cautious of the bizarre carts. "A mechanism… you mean, such as clockwork?" he said, groping for something recognisable he could understand and attribute to the strange machines.

"Eh… close enough," Halverson said before Llewellyn could go off on another long, rambling technical dissertation. "Lead the way Captain, we'll be right behind you."

Waldroch smiled again, nodded and pivoted, his cloak sweeping out behind him as he strode out of the courtyard with renewed energy. The two guards likewise turned and followed, moving in as perfect a formation with him as the Sumpters were with Llewellyn.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Halverson hissed at Llewellyn as they began to leave the courtyard.

"I don't know! I'm no good at this diplomatic stuff. I try to be pleasant and I mess up, so then I get nervous and I gabble!"

Halverson sighed. "Alright. Okay. Look, it's easy once you get the hang of it. You've got it half right – be polite and pleasant, but stay calm. Think your answers through, even if it takes a few seconds – there's no time limit. Just chill, drop the technobabble and you'll get the hang of it eventually. But if I butt in, let me take over, okay? I'm a little bit more practiced at this 'diplomatic stuff' than you are. Hell, I'm bloody Henry Kissinger compared to you, only, you know, without the possible war crimes controversy."

"Eh, give it time, Doc."

* * *

Webber strode through the halls toward the administrative section of the Garrison, his powerful, precise gait verging on marching. The man never seemed to perform any action at anything less than full intensity or without some degree of irritability, and as he increased his own pace in order to keep up, Taylor could only hope this dominant characteristic of Webber's personality would be to their advantage in the upcoming meeting.

He only belatedly realised they had just passed the briefing room itself and were headed further down the hall, towards the Brigadier's office. Webber entered, motioning for Taylor to close the door. Taylor hadn't known him for long, but he knew Webber's quarter century in the military had instilled a deep-seated need for almost obsessive neatness and organisation, so as he glanced around the Brigadier's office it came as a surprise to find that his desk seemed to be playing host to a scale representation of the Himalayan foothills rendered in memos and triplicate forms.

"We have a little under half an hour before the meeting actually starts, and in that time, there are several things I think we should discuss. Have a seat Major," Webber said tersely as he walked over to and rounded his desk, hesitating thoughtfully as he stood beside his chair. From his tone and demeanour, Taylor guessed it wasn't going to be a pre-conference pep talk, though he wasn't entirely sure the Brigadier was capable of anything so casual or uplifting anyway.

"This is off the record, and about as informal as I get. I…feel we need to go over several things before either of us enters that briefing room, and I need to know your thoughts on several matters. Speak freely Major, because for once, I don't want you to hesitate if you have questions or concerns," Webber said before sitting down, valiantly trying to hide a troubled expression.

"I understand sir," Taylor said, sitting in the chair. "Can I ask sir, what is the precise purpose of this meeting? I was under the impression that the VIPs were here purely for the handover ceremony, but somehow it seems there's a lot more to their being here than signing a document, shaking hands and having their photos taken for posterity."

Webber took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat as he spent a moment arranging his thoughts and choosing his words.

"Officially, this meeting today is to finalise aspects of the US-UK Combined Offworld Asset Sharing Treaty prior to the handover tomorrow. Since the VIPs would be coming here for that anyway and since they are all key players and decision makers relevant in some way to this project, it made sense to have it on the base, after they've had a tour and seen us in action…but there's definitely something more to it, an undertone that I do not like. When I dialled the SGC earlier this morning to send Yates back, I checked in with the MoD, where I called in some favours and sent out some back channel feelers. Shortly before Lieutenant Llewellyn took the rest of your team offworld, the SGC dialled us for our scheduled supply, data and personnel transfer. During this dial-in, I received some information from my sources. Thankfully, I still have a few reliable contacts in Whitehall – the long and the short of it is that I think we're going to be in deep trouble."

"How so, sir?" Taylor asked.

Webber shook his head slowly.

"Unfortunately I don't know any specifics, but you and I are both acutely aware that somebody has been interfering with this project for some time, somebody with enough influence to force us into operation three months before we're ready and stymy us with a small rainforest's worth of paperwork regarding the most petty and pathetic things. Our funding keeps getting slashed and delayed, key personnel are mysteriously reassigned at the last minute to remote locales. Did you know that Dr Nelson – our formerly absent Chief Medical Officer – was apparently posted to Diego Garcia no less, while the bulk of the medical supplies and equipment earmarked for our use were redistributed to our sites in Belize, Canada and Germany? I could understand it if they were being used to bolster the operation in Afghanistan, but this…"

Webber paused, thoughtfully, a dark, cold and distant look in his eyes.

"Major, I have been in the Army for a tremendous fraction of my life. Some days I wonder if I would still have joined up if I'd known how much stinking bureaucratic and political crap was going to be shovelled on to my desk once I got past Captain. This rubbish," he picked disgustedly at the papers splayed on his desk, "is not what I was preparing to fight in the name of Queen and country when I signed on the dotted line, and not what I expected when I was briefed on the Stargate. I am a professional soldier, damn it. But all this crap we're dealing with now…" he trailed off bitterly.

"…it's salt in the wound. Making sure we know somebody has a very low opinion of us, of our operation and showing that we don't even rank as highly as overseas training grounds in priority. Ensuring we know we're not wanted and that somebody has that level of power over us." Taylor said sagely.

Webber nodded angrily. "Large portions of our funding are still being blocked – I've had to creatively requisition more than a few items, such as ammunition being declared a perishable foodstuff so I could hide it in the catering budget."

"So that's why the mess's peas are like bullets," Taylor murmured. Webber glared at him until he had the decency to look contrite.

"General Landry has been invaluable in helping us secure vital stores or equipment, but most of it is merely loaned until we can secure our own gear and finally acquire weapons that are effective against the Fenrir. On that note, I have some news about the Land Rovers you used yesterday," Webber said.

"Sir, I know we have serious funding and requisition issues but I have to say… they worked a treat, made an incredible difference. One Fenrir plus several fifty-calibre rounds equals a cloud of settling fur and a red smear on the floor. On that basis alone, I'm officially recommending we acquire fifty cal anti-materiel and sniper rifles ASAP, and we definitely need more Land Rovers. Maybe even a full, expanded vehicle pool if we ever get the chance. I've already asked Nesbitt and he's come up with some ideas for offworld modifications that we can—"

"They're being recalled," Webber said abruptly as he pulled the relevant memo from one of the piles.

Taylor was dumbfounded. He could barely believe it – the first weapon they'd deployed that had cut through the wolves with ease and speed, the first system that could give them a definite tactical advantage and it was already being taken away from them.

"What?" Taylor said.

"Somebody has argued that they were illegally used since they were not technically assets assigned to this command but instead to the security force at Site 02 while the Stargate was there. The argument goes that I effectively commandeered them without having authorisation to do so, and now we're being punished, regardless of the fact that they worked so well. When the _Hammond_ arrives on the next supply run, they are to be loaded aboard and returned to the UK," Webber replied.

"That is absolute bullsh… oh for God's sake! I… sorry sir."

"My reaction was similar, Major. If anything it was a little stronger and more colourful. Worse still, this decision was only taken after the report on their success was sent to the MoD, rather than simply a delayed request for all materials and equipment not directly associated with the operation of the base to be returned, a deliberate act of bureaucratic spite to impede our ability to fight the Fenrir.

"Major, some time ago I had an… acquaintance back on Earth look into some of our problems, to trace the paper trail back to the root – it ended prematurely, but it definitely suggests somebody high up in Whitehall, and I'm hearing whispers that something big is about to happen with regards to British involvement in the Stargate programme. I highly doubt it will be good news."

"So it's an element in our own government trying to undermine us? I thought this project had the Prime Minister's backing."

"It's not just Whitehall. The entire reason we have home-grown clones of the F.R.E.D. and M.A.L.P. machines and next to no access to even naquadah reactor technology is precisely because we have opponents in the Pentagon as well, using export laws to prevent us laying our hands on all but the simplest technology with offworld applications. Something about all this stinks to high heaven, and I would lay money that at least one of the people responsible came through that gate yesterday. Watch your back in that meeting, Major. And one more thing," Webber said, "do not, for God's sake, mention that we have a Fenrir prisoner on the base, or that we may soon have access to Lhoakan trinium. I want to have a couple of aces up my sleeve should this all go south, but more importantly, I don't want the knowledge that there is a Fenrir on the base leaking out and causing a panic."

Taylor nodded. "Understood sir. Since we know we have enemies in our camp, it would be useful – not to mention reassuring – to know who we _can_ trust among the delegates. Due to the, ah, _interruption_ yesterday," Taylor said – had he imagined that tiny flicker of a smirk on Webber's face? "I didn't get to meet many of them myself. Who do you suppose are our allies?"

Webber nodded thoughtfully, considering the question for a while. "General O'Neill is quite likely one of our supporters from the other side of the Pond, and as it happens, galaxy, but at the same time, I don't know how much we can count on him – because of his position he has tremendous clout, but he also has political responsibilities that may make him of doubtful value as an ally. I'd stake my life that he wouldn't sell us out, but he may not be permitted to actively help us either. General Bullock is obviously on our side, but I genuinely don't know if this is good or bad for us."

"What about the nervous IOA bloke? Chapman, was it?"

"Sadly he appears to be another unknown quantity. My sources say he's a big player in the Advisory and wields considerable power, though he has a reputation for being excessively bureaucratic and blind to the reality of the threats arrayed against Earth – even by IOA standards."

"Ouch…"

"Indeed. That said, he has first-hand – if somewhat limited – experience of offworld activity and is also a very close friend of General Bullock – I saw that look, Major. Yes, surprisingly, the General does have 'friends', no matter how you interpret the term. Because of General Bullock's campaign, Mr Chapman was instrumental in providing British supplies, funding and personnel to the Atlantis Expedition. This all proved to be invaluable political collateral when Bullock had Chapman help in getting Project Vidar up and running."

"I'll put him down as 'probable ally' then."

"Quite. His opposite number in the United States is Richard Woolsey's successor, James Coolidge. Not much to tell, other than he is generally detached and officious, but he can be unpredictable. Now, Douglas Moore is most certainly an unknown quantity, potentially very powerful, ex-RAF officer turned MoD civil servant. I honestly have no idea why he's here, though I have my suspicions. My biggest concern—"

"Melford."

"Oh yes. Sir Dennis Melford. Worryingly, he's a closed book. Short of the official biography, there isn't much to tell. Lifelong civil servant, consummate bureaucrat, has a wife who is minor aristocracy, and he is responsible for the closure of so many military bases and projects I can't even begin to list them. However, there are files suggesting he has an extensive power base in the Ministry of Defence coupled with a wide network of influential friends and contacts in political, military and corporate circles, not to mention rumours of a past career in the higher echelons of SIS. I suspect that he's going to be our biggest threat."

* * *

Lhoaka was immersed in a shared grieving period. As the team slowly made their way through the cobbled streets and up the hill, they passed people of every class and background assisting in the efforts to clear rubble, and at one point, Moffatt quietly pointed out the limp, bloodied hand protruding from a heap of shattered stone and dust, minor nobles and serfs working side by side to clear the damage and retrieve the corpse. No single class had been spared, and now, regardless of societal standing, they all worked together to rebuild, and to mourn.

"Three dozen Fenrir did this – on foot, in the space of half an hour. They didn't even use their Talon ships – no air support, no heavy weapons, just fléchettes and those bloody plasma launchers," Llewellyn said, half marvelling at the fearsome strength of their enemy, and half appalled at the devastation they had wreaked.

"We sustained grave losses, yes, but I don't believe there is one among us who is not tremendously grateful for your actions. We are all aware that, as terrible as it was, it would have been so much more terrible if you had not shown up when you did, and fought them off. Please, don't be disheartened by what you see here and don't let your minds turn to thoughts of death and destruction. Your presence here has been a beacon of hope, and I doubt there would be a single Lhoakan alive now if not for your presence," Waldroch said.

"Actually… that's not necessarily true, Captain," Halverson said. "It's possible, if not probable, that the Fenrir wanted to subjugate most of your people and use you as slaves. We've seen them do it elsewhere."

"Slaves? But… why? What is it they want?" Waldroch asked.

"Before I answer that," Halverson interjected, "tell me this, Captain. Did you recognise the Fenrir at all?"

Waldroch looked at her intently for a moment. "It is odd that you should ask that, Doctor. I have never heard of nor laid eyes on anything like them before, but since the attack, there are a few in the city who claim they are not as entirely unfamiliar as we had otherwise thought."

"Really? How so?" Halverson asked.

"I do not know myself, and I have had little time to look into it or pay any heed to rumours except to stop scaremongers or those who would be distracted from their duties. I had heard tell that some of the very old tales speak of similar beings to these Fenrir, but I fear I am at the limit of my knowledge. Perhaps some of our scholars could help you more, Doctor. Now…why would they want to enslave us?"

"Trinium!" Llewellyn blurted, smiling. "That silvery metal beneath your city? It's very important to them. Us as well, actually, but we're less likely to invade over it."

Llewellyn had answered before Halverson could do more than open her mouth as she tried to compose a tactful explanation, earning himself one of her patented, extra strength withering glares.

* * *

Casually pouring himself the first of doubtless many cups of strong black coffee, Taylor eyed the VIPs as they entered. General O'Neill and Major Davis, serving as his attaché, entered the room and sought out their seats at the table. Both were decked out in the service dress of the US Air Force, but only one of them looked truly comfortable in the blue uniform. Taylor placed the coffee cup down and came to attention, but O'Neill quickly shook his head, slightly perturbed by the fuss. The man had never been big on such things and almost seemed embarrassed.

General Bullock followed shortly after, already arguing with somebody. The man was constantly irritable, far more so than Webber. Again, Taylor quickly and smartly snapped to attention. Bullock looked slightly annoyed, but in contrast to O'Neill, it seemed to be because regulations dictated that Taylor couldn't deliver a full salute without headdress.

With all of the military personnel present, Taylor sat in his designated spot next to Webber, with Bullock on the Brigadier's left. The civilians filed in slowly, casually and randomly. Bureaucrats, all of them, Taylor thought as he watched. None of them wore anything remotely inexpensive, but there was one that stood out.

Dressed in an immaculate Saville Row suit perfectly tailored for his surprisingly large frame, Sir Dennis Melford strode into the room with a leather binder under one arm. Taylor was no fan of sartorial elegance – for him, mess uniform was a cruel form of torture to be dreaded – but the bespoke suit said everything it needed to about its wearer.

As they all took their seats and exchanged pleasantries, there was a round of introductions before O'Neill cleared his throat. "Okay folks, listen up. I probably don't need to tell you this, but I will anyway. This meeting will serve as a pretty informal debate on the current and future viability of this base, and to discuss the Combined Offworld Asset Sharing Treaty, or COAST, and its ramifications. And because it's informal everybody has permission to speak freely, regardless of rank, for the duration of the meeting," he said. "Sir Dennis, I believe you asked to start?"

With unnerving self-confidence, Melford turned his gaze towards Bullock and Webber, the sterling silver Montblanc fountain pen poised and ready to note down their responses or anything else that interested him.

"Thank you, General. Let's get started, shall we?" he said. "No sense skirting the issue. Brigadier, what is being done to make this facility a viable threat to the rogue Fenrir? So far I haven't been terribly impressed with what I've seen of the military power on display, because I highly doubt you can run the operation you claim this to be with only two teams authorised for offworld activities. As I understand it, yesterday you were forced to press combatants lacking offworld authorisation into action due to lack of personnel."

"Two more offworld teams will be arriving by the end of the week. More personnel and materiel arrives every day, if it can find its way to the Stargate of course," Webber said, pointedly refusing to break eye contact or even blink as he stared at Melford.

"Infantry. Two teams of six men each, to be precise. That's your answer to what you claim is potentially one of the gravest threats we've encountered since first opening the Stargate?"

"Only part of it, Melford," Bullock interjected. "The Garrison will have tiered options available – from ground troops up to nuclear weapons – when finished. In fact, a report crossed my desk only two days ago confirming that the first batch of eight nuclear weapons are as good as done. The Garrison is just waiting on delivery."

"So you're saying that the Garrison is depleting the UK's strategic deterrent?"

"No, these weapons were drawn from the reserve stockpile, as you damn well know. And even if they weren't, it's only equivalent to two warheads from each Vanguard boat. Eight warheads out of what, over two hundred weapons in total?" Bullock and Melford glared at each other.

Meekly, Chapman leaned forward. "General, can I ask, when you say they're as good as done, what exactly did you mean?" the white haired IOA representative said.

Bullock sighed, and Taylor wondered if the General was unhappy with having to explain himself to a civilian. It certainly fit with what he knew about the Special Warfare and Reconnaissance Service's commanding officer, a lifelong, diehard military man like his ancestors. The problem was that Bullock also ably represented the negative side of the Army, the Ministry of Defence and the entire culture of the British Armed Forces.

"I mean that since the Royal Navy has been solely responsible for the UK's nuclear weapons as of 1998, it all needs to go through them – however, the Admiralty Board has signed off on the transfer. Five of the weapons needed to be checked and refurbished after so long in storage, and three were delivered to Area 51 to have their cores reprocessed with naquadah."

"In the interests of full disclosure I feel I should mention that there is a ninth weapon, of US origin but gifted to us, and it has a singular purpose," Webber said. There was a brief murmur among some of the parties at the table.

"Which is?" Karen Bastable asked.

"The physics package for this facility's self-destruct system," he said, calmly and simply. Among several of the civilians there was visible though well-concealed anxiety.

"It's on-base now, just awaiting final integration along with the secondary ordnance packages," Webber finished.

Melford shuffled his notes, visibly aggravated. "But back to the infantry you mention – this base can support how many?" he asked, seizing command of the conversation once again.

"When finished, the Garrison will be capable of comfortably accommodating a little over three hundred personnel in total, and for a time we could manage double that if strictly necessary. Though this number is inclusive of support staff and civilians, and it is after all quite doubtful we will ever be able to draw that many from our armed forces in their current state," Webber stated.

Melford simply scoffed, looking around the table as if for support and agreement. "So why even plan to accommodate that many? Brigadier, you have as much as admitted that this facility is a gross and grievous waste of money intended to support troops that you do not have and are well aware we cannot spare!"

"Actually, that's not true, Sir Dennis," Bullock smiled. Even for those on his side of the argument, it was a disconcerting expression, explaining its rarity. "We are exploring plans to eventually invite other nations to participate in this project in a variety of roles – Commonwealth nations first, chiefly Canada, Australia and New Zealand, then perhaps some of our allies in the European Union. No single nation would have to commit an excessive number of troops to fill this base, or provide an inordinate amount of funding, and this project would still be completely viable."

"Even so, you think that fewer than three hundred soldiers are all that will be required to defeat the Fenrir? Hardly fits with the picture you paint of these 'werewolves' being a grave threat to all life, does it?"

"If you're talking conventional warfare, no it doesn't, not by a long shot. But we're not—" Taylor began, his first true contribution to the meeting. Melford simply talked over him as if he wasn't there.

"I ask you, what can a single base with at most a few hundred men possibly hope to achieve against a threat as large and dire as you say it is?"

Before anybody else could answer, O'Neill loudly cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. "The SGC managed pretty well against the Goa'uld. Like the saying goes, 'size doesn't matter'," he said quietly.

Webber smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

The tall hill that served as the site and foundation of the city-state of Lhoaka no longer possessed an evenly – if steeply – curved slope. Centuries of ceaseless construction and demolition, always constrained by the city's high, thick and ancient walls, had eventually used up every available scrap of land, until old buildings themselves became the foundation of the next generation of structures. The dense, complex and almost haphazard looking architecture had long since reconfigured the original smooth gradient into a terraced hillside, every flat level filled to capacity with houses, shops, warehouses and more. Some buildings even jutted out from these terraces on balconies, while others had been built like bridges to take advantage of the gaps between buildings without blocking off vital streets or roads.

"I didn't really stop to study it yesterday, what with the whole alien werewolf attack and everything, but this city… it's beautiful. It's like… I don't know. Machu Pichu crossed with San Marino," Halverson said as they moved through the streets and up the hill, its peak wreathed in cloud.

"San Marino the republic, or San Marino the capital city of said republic?" Llewellyn asked casually.

"You know, Gareth, you are so full of—"

"Surprises?" he asked, beaming.

"Not quite…"

As the guards and the team moved up a sloping street that served as a ramp to the next terrace, Moffatt idly looked to her left. "Oh wow."

In a city so crowded that entire houses were built over narrow alleyways or hung off the edge of sheer stone terraces, the large open space she was looking at, incidentally or cleverly hidden from view earlier in their journey by the cluttered roofs and spires of buildings on the terrace below, seemed completely out of place. With open space in such short supply, the only similar expanses she had seen elsewhere in the city had been the central plaza below the Lord Governor's palace and the yard that held the Stargate and all goods moving one way or another through it, but neither of those largely functional areas appeared to be remotely like this.

The area she was looking at now was turfed rather than paved or cobbled, though it was by no means a flat lawn or ornamental garden of any description – row upon row of similarly sized mounds filled the ground, the incongruous vegetation occupying a remarkable fraction of the entire terrace. However, sat in the middle of the level was a single building, and it seemed as out of place as the green carpet on either side.

The building in question was large and clearly important, but it was also distinctly worn, its stone pitted and cracked, darker and dirtier in colour but bearing more blemishes than any other building. Even its architecture was significantly different, in many ways looking simpler and cruder compared to the buildings that sat above and below it. It lacked the fine craftsmanship, the intricate detail or crisp construction of the rest of the city, and it sat at the very bottom of one of the large terraces that made up the city.

"What building is that, Captain? It looks old, very old," Halverson asked, stopping and joining Moffatt at the parapet to look down on the turfed terrace and the lone building. It didn't take long for Jarvis and Llewellyn to join them.

"That," Waldroch said, standing and staring reverently at the building, "is the Shrine of Daphell, and you are quite right Doctor Halverson. It is the oldest surviving building in Lhoaka, arguably the most sacred and holy spot in the entirety of our fair city."

"I've heard that name several times. Who was Daphell?"

"I am no theologian, nor a historian, but I can tell you that many centuries ago, Daphell was our foremost prophet, our greatest saint, our most revered leader and our highest priest. She was responsible for many of the laws, rites and beliefs we hold now and upon which our society is built."

As they continued to watch, the rain still pouring, people emerged from the rear entrance of the shrine, each of them in a dark grey hooded cloak. They moved slowly and deliberately across the flagstones under the large pergola that connected the rear of the shrine to the terrace wall maybe forty metres away, where they took up positions on both sides of the path and waited, spared the worst of the downpour by the dense mat of lush green vines that formed the roof of the covered path.

"So, we're watching…oh. Of course," Halverson said, trailing off into a sombre murmur as she watched.

With the entire path now manned by silent, still people in grey cloaks, a final party left the shrine's rear entrance. Between the eight of them they carried a rather large and ornate open topped wooden box out of the building. Inside the box, clothed in a simple white tunic, was a very still, middle-aged male body with its arms by its sides. As it passed with aching slowness, each of the people at the path's edge moved forward and placed something on or next to the body.

From their vantage point, the team could see that the end of the pergola attached to the base of the terrace wall hid an archway, clearly an entrance to a tunnel into the hillside. It wasn't large and ornate, and in fact its construction and age seemed to match the shrine. By the time every person on the path had stepped forward and placed their offering and the oversized, open-topped coffin was about to disappear into the hill, a fine set of armour had been placed on but not fastened to the corpse, his arms now folded over his chest with a sword pointing towards his feet and a shield on top of it. Alongside his body lay small treasures including expensive metal plates, small velvet bags of various sizes, ornate bottles of coloured glass filled with different liquids and even leather bound tomes. The very last pair of people carried a lid that matched the box and quietly fixed it in place.

"Oh. I'm sorry," Halverson said quietly.

Waldroch shook his head. "Please, don't be. Grand Captain Sundroch had been unwell for some time, so his demise during yesterday's attack was neither unexpected nor unprepared for. Rather, I understand there is considerable relief that he is at peace and can now move on to the next world, and that the families have been able to hold the ceremony so soon. This is just the first of many funerals in the coming weeks, and Lhoaka has more than enough grief to sustain itself for some time – you need not add yours to the pool, especially in light of what you offer us."

"Yeah, I'm not sure guns and bandages are enough."

"Perhaps not, but what you and they both represent surely are."

* * *

Sinking even lower into his seat, Taylor squeezed the bridge of his nose again and screwed his eyes shut to try and blot out the constant bickering. Maybe the whole damned meeting would disappear if he concentrated hard enough, or at least subside to a more tolerable background droning noise. He reached for his mug of coffee, the third he'd had since he'd entered the briefing room, and then thought better of it – as it was, he had a headache and had spent the last hour fidgeting and on edge, so caffeine was the last thing he wanted.

"Damn it, you're not listening to me, General! I don't care if you're good friends with the Defence minister, or how easily you manipulated the cabinet or the Prime Minister, there is still the fact—"

"That is offensive and inaccurate—" Bullock retorted angrily.

"—There is still the fact that more than half of the MoD and government officials who are even allowed to know of the Stargate think this damn project is an obscene waste of money and resources far better spent on military issues closer to home. For God's sake, we're fighting a war in Afghanistan, our new aircraft carriers and next gen fighters are already facing the axe and the media is constantly jumping on us for shortfalls in defence spending! So do you really think it's wise to divert over three billion pounds into this bloody pet project of yours?" Miss Bastable shouted, rising from her seat to yell to at Bullock on the other side of the briefing room table. Her Majesty's Treasury was clearly a far more spirited place to work than Taylor had given it credit for.

"You are being ridiculously short sighted! The money spent here will ultimately benefit every human in the galaxy while further cementing our power on the galactic scene. In time, that three billion will pale into insignificance against what we will accomplish here," Bullock said loudly and furiously.

"Whose power will it cement, Earth's or the United Kingdom's?" Miss Swain, the US defence official asked icily.

"Both. Or does that bother you? Sometimes I think you need reminding that the United States has not been, and _will_ not have been responsible for every great achievement of the human race."

Swain bristled and Webber groaned. He could see people all around the table trying to hide their discomfort at Bullock's jingoistic rhetoric. Something would have to be said to break the cycle of insult-counter insult.

"Gentlemen, ladies – keep it civil! May I remind you all that despite being sixty-three thousand light years removed from Earth, we are still on British territory, and that means the laws of Her Majesty's government are in effect out here – even the ones regarding slander," Webber said loudly.

"Not technically true, Brigadier."

Webber paused, and turned to glare across the other side of the table at Melford. "Care to explain that remark, Sir Dennis?"

Melford cleared his throat, and shrugging off Webber's intimidating tone he sat upright, his back ramrod straight, studiously gazing at his notes before fixing each person in turn as he spoke. The impression was that the man lived for top-level briefings and was a past master at chairing panels, committees and enquiries.

"This base is not actually British property, not yet. You are forgetting after all that it was built primarily with the resources and funding allocated by the US government and the International Oversight Advisory for the SGC's Epsilon Site.

"Until the official handover ceremony two days from now, this is still a United States Air Force base that merely happens to be staffed with a largely British work force and commanding officer by the gracious invitation of the US government. The cold, hard reality of it all – one you would do well to accept sooner rather than later – is that there are sizeable movements in both the United States and United Kingdom governments who wish to cancel Project Vidar entirely and hand this facility back to our American allies, returning to them total control over the Fenrir situation."

"Are you insane? We can't abandon our offworld activities, not now!" Taylor said.

"Except we won't be abandoning our offworld activities, Major. I am not so short-sighted as to attempt to deprive the United Kingdom of the benefits of exploring the galaxy and more importantly, defence against threats from outside Earth. I merely believe there is a significantly more economical, efficient and effective means of doing so," Melford said as he proceeded to distribute thin files marked 'Classified' to everybody sat around the table.

Taylor scanned the title on the first page of his copy of the document.

"'Project Wyvern: A New Proposal for the Acquisition of a WS.1'. Excuse my ignorance and, uh, impatience, but what the hell is a WS.1?" Taylor said.

Quiet until now, Group Captain Trevithick sat forward, leaning with hands clasped together on the table. His file remained unopened, and Taylor saw with a quick glance at his copy that Trevithick was one of the authors of the proposal.

"That would be Warship, Space, Mark One, Major. Her Majesty's Air Force Vessel _Dreadnaught_, to be precise. It's the planned Royal Air Force designation for the first of hopefully several BC-304s. We've been trying to lay our hands on at least one for years, and now we finally have a shot. Only unlike the two states who acquired them from the US before us, we're not quite as willing to resort to political blackmail."

O'Neill leaned forward to look at Trevithick. "For which I'm sure we are all _very_ grateful," he said, smiling briefly and slightly. Trevithick either chose to ignore or simply didn't seem to pick up on O'Neill's slightly facetious tone, instead smiling in return.

Taylor wasn't the only one temporarily taken aback, but he was the first to speak up: "A 304? That's… wow… no, wait. Hang on. Sorry, long day, I think I'm missing something obvious. The UK government is having a hard time finding the funding for _this_ operation, let alone purchasing and running a starship. How the hell is the MoD going to pay for both?"

A faint smile crossed Trevithick's lips. "That's precisely the point, Major," he said.

Melford gave a faint nod to Trevithick before taking over, adjusting his glasses before reading partly from the report but clearly from memory as well. "In exchange for the base, into which the UK government has already sunk several billion pounds, we are promised the next BC-304 off the production line, with an option to purchase or lease up to two more spaceframes, the proposed vehicles _Diligence_ and _Defiance_. All will be based out of a covert facility already under construction in Scotland. Let me make that clear – that would give us the second largest fleet of Earth-built interstellar vehicles after the United States."

Melford let that sink in. "Every report I have says that even a single deep space carrier is far more advantageous, flexible and cost effective to the British government and people than a fixed offworld base focused on a single mission, and the possibility of additional vehicles beyond the first is better still," he finished.

"Given the close working relationship between the United States and British militaries, and how both are striving for greater interoperability of our military assets, it makes sense for you to choose a starship over a fixed base," Coolidge added.

Taylor shook his head, struggling not to laugh from the sheer arrogance and ridiculousness on display. Melford saw this and started up again: "Even the United States has been scaling back its Stargate operations in favour of constructing more ships for the fleet. If we are to have any kind of significant off-world presence, starships are the most effective and useful means. By the time this 'Void Prison' oh-so conveniently falls in four years, and if indeed there actually is any threat, we shall be part of a combined fleet more than large enough and capable enough to deal with anything thrown at it."

A slight laugh escaped Taylor's lips as he began to speak. "Right. 304s – or WS.1s, or whatever you want to call them – are no match for Fenrir technology. Go and ask Doctor Nesbitt if you don't believe me. The _Apollo_ very nearly had its arse handed to it by a pair of Talons." Seeing blank faces, he elaborated "…uh, Fenrir shuttles, small, armed, hyperspace- and Stargate-capable transports a bit larger than a Lantean Puddle Jumper.

"Look – the SGC's own report agrees that Fenrir shields are among the toughest ever encountered, comparable only to those of the Ori, and they are particularly resistant to Asgard energy weapons. The other side of the coin is that Fenrir weapons can drain Asgard shielding in seconds… all the evidence we have suggests they've been gearing up to fight an Asgard offshoot for ten millennia. Even with the Asgard Legacy, or even precisely because of it, our ships barely stand a chance against _small_Fenrir vessels, and last year they recovered a freaking warship!"

"An out-dated and abandoned warship that had lain buried under a desert for ten millennia that, and this is the part I feel bears emphasis, that the _Daedalus_ was able to damage quite easily – Colonel Caldwell's report states that his ship's weapons passed through the shields with relative ease, and they were only thwarted by the ship's size and its escape to hyperspace," Coolidge said. "We don't consider it a viable threat."

"Please tell me you're joking," Taylor scoffed.

"That ship was abandoned and buried ten thousand years old. That they even got it flying was likely a miracle, and the _Daedalus_ ably demonstrated how inferior its shields and weapons were," Swain said.

"Ships can be retrofitted, or else they probably wouldn't have recovered it! Hell, your country's got a great example – the World War 2 era Iowa-class battleships that were refitted with cruise missiles in the Eighties?"

"Not without infrastructure, parts and labour. Like I said, we don't consider it a viable threat," Coolidge said.

"My God, do you people just pick and choose which bits of these reports you use to base your decisions on? What with it being the newer vessel, the _Apollo_ has several improvements over the _Daedalus_, right? Well she was nearly crippled by Fenrir fighters and shuttles! Even if your plan to simply build a fleet and wait for the prison to fall wasn't monumentally short-sighted and idiotic beyond description, it would still be totally and suicidally ineffective. It would be a complete, brutal massacre!"

"Major!" Webber snapped. "That's enough!"

"This facility is a colossal and offensive waste of money, built to further that man's private agenda, nothing more!" Melford said, getting heated now as he stabbed a finger at a seething General Bullock. "The Fenrir are at best an overblown, localised incident that can be handled adequately by existing SG teams, at worst a virtually non-existent enemy, a mostly fabricated threat blown out of all proportion purely to give a single tenuous reason for British participation in the Stargate program, something that we don't remotely need! Even if they are a danger, you said yourself they're trapped in a bloody interplanetary prison, for God's sake!" Melford shouted.

Taylor turned quickly to stare at Webber, the obvious unspoken request written on his face swiftly denied by Webber's stern glare and subtle shake of his head. As he angrily turned back to face Melford, Taylor caught O'Neill's eye. The American General knew exactly what Taylor had been thinking, and he was subtly shaking his head as well.

"I can't believe I'm really hearing this. I really can't. Why don't you get somebody to drive you out to Site 02 right now and show you the cairn and the plaque that stands as a memorial to the twenty-one men and women who died there trying to stop the Fenrir getting through the Stargate? All of them were highly capable, experienced SGC fighters. I have _fought_ Fenrir, I have seen good men die facing them, I have seen what they can do, and I am telling you they are currently the greatest threat to human life – no, to _all_ life in this galaxy."

Melford snorted derisively. "Hyperbole. Even if that were true, the SGC has faced down and defeated several previous threats of similar or greater magnitude."

"Their escape is all but inevitable. In four years, the Gleipnir system will no longer have the power to maintain the Void Prison, and an entire species of human-hating alien werewolves will spill out and into the Milky Way. Hell, I don't even think Pegasus will be safe from them for long!" Taylor said angrily.

Coolidge smiled. "If that is the case, Major, don't you think it wise to leave the fight up to those with the most experience of offworld engagements? The SGC has dealt with the Goa'uld, the Ori, the Replicators, and many more. They are best suited and best placed to contain this threat – if there even _is_ a credible threat, which I must say I sincerely doubt."

* * *

"If there even is a threat, my God… sir, permission to head down to the holding cells in Section J and let Fido out for a walk? See if they still think the threat of the Fenrir is 'debatable' after that."

Sat behind his desk, Webber fumed as Taylor paced up and down in his office.

"Denied, though I'll admit I considered it. Major, there is something you need to know. I've asked somebody to join us to explain," Webber said as the door to his office opened.

The man who stepped into the room was the United Kingdom's chief representative from within the International Oversight Advisory, a jittery, silver haired man by the name of Russell Chapman. Swallowing nervously, he sat in one of the chairs in front of Webber's desk and after making introductions, he began talking, quietly.

"Major Taylor, you need to understand that the United Kingdom has been trying to acquire a starship from the United States for a great deal longer than it's been trying to get an independent Stargate program up and running – since shortly after the _Prometheus_ was launched, no less. Considering we've been their closest ally for a long time, the ill feeling over the Russian Federation and People's Republic of China being given interstellar battlecruisers while we still have none isn't going to go away quickly."

Webber nodded grimly as Chapman took a gulp of water before continuing: "From what I've heard, we almost got our hands on a 304 a while back. The spaceframe was even half-built when the government made the MoD pull the plug and abruptly cut funding, and the US government was – understandably – furious."

Taylor paused, stopped pacing and eventually sat down in the remaining chair in front of Webber's desk. "I didn't know that. What happened to the ship?"

"New buyers. They were bought off with a substantial discount and changed its name from _Dreadnaught_ to _Sun__Tzu_, though rumour has it that it very nearly became the _Leonov_. The point is, a 304 under RAF control has been a long term goal of the MoD, especially given our position as the United States' closest ally, and they've tried to get one on three separate occasions," Chapman continued.

"I'll admit, the idea of having a 304 with an RAF roundel and flying the Union Flag does give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside," Taylor murmured.

"Group Captain Trevithick and the crew he assembled have been ready to take charge of a British starship for the last six years," Chapman said. "This project appeared to crush that dream entirely – the UK government cannot fund both, and General Bullock made it quite clear that his proposal was much more urgent.

"The last cabinet agreed with that assessment, but the fact remains that it is either or, not both, and cold hard numbers say that buying and running one or even two 304s will ultimately prove cheaper and more useful than a prolonged offworld campaign against an enemy that, frankly, we know bugger all about and isn't yet directly threatening us. As long as we have this base, we will never have our own starship. It is as simple as that," Webber said.

"Brigadier, Mr Chapman – as long as we have this base, we stand a slim fighting chance of stopping the Fenrir from ever wiping out all life in the known universe. Ships just won't cut it. In a ground war, we can just about hold our own, we can cut off their supply lines, we can even execute ops inside the Void Prison if need be…but in that room they're seriously talking about just burying the gate and pretending the Fenrir are a mild nuisance that can be dealt with by a few battlecarriers.

"If the Prison falls, even if every major power in this galaxy – and the next – allied against the Fenrir, I still don't know if we could survive based on what we've learned. Our only option is pre-emptive ops against them. Surgical strikes through the gate network by land warfare specialists… it's the only way we stand a chance of hurting them. The SGC has the allies and the clout to begin stabilising and preparing the rest of the galaxy for a major defensive action in a few years, leaving us to concentrate exclusively on preparing local defences and defeating or at least slowing the escaped Fenrir. And maybe even the ones still inside the Prison, for that matter."

Webber sighed. "Major, you are preaching to the choir."

* * *

The Lord Governor's palace was not immune from the overcrowded architecture of the city, but it did stand out as one of the most prominent edifices in Lhoaka. Closely surrounded by a thirty foot high stone wall, it was a formidable, impressive structure that occupied a large fraction of one of the higher levels. It commanded impressive views of almost the entire dense, built up city, overlooking the central plaza where the Fenrir 'Talon' shuttles had landed, and most notably of all, it was deceptively far from the Stargate.

In a straight line it was only four hundred metres, but on foot it was several times that distance as they climbed the steep hill through winding, chaotic streets. Several routes had been closed off because of the damage to the city, increasing the distance further still.

At several points, Llewellyn had to fall back to guide the Sumpters through tricky or narrow routes, until eventually he caved and asked Waldroch to send for some men to carry the gear and supplies they had brought with them, temporarily abandoning the wheeled robots when the dense urban terrain confounded them.

"I don't remember it taking this bloody long to get there yesterday. They didn't move the Stargate or anything did they?" Halverson complained breathlessly.

"Yesterday," Jarvis began, "we were running the whole way, high on adrenaline from the combat, and most importantly, we weren't carrying enough equipment to set up a small forward operating base. Be grateful you're not being shot at or hunted today, so stop moaning."

"No, I won't! I like moaning. I'm very good at it, too, I've got lots of experience and besides, it's comforting. I'm cold, I'm wet, my legs are already aching, I object morally and ethically with what we're about to do and I've got to coach Dynamite Boy here in the fine art of diplomacy, so yeah, I'll moan if I damn well feel like it."

"You know, you're old before your time, Doc. Maybe we should start calling you Victoria Meldrew. In fact, you know what," Llewellyn grinned, "When we get back I'm going to requisition you a flat cap and a raincoat!"

"Victor Meldrew had the right idea! And John Becker and Bernard Black too, for that matter, and don't tell me they were just misanthropic gits. Moaning is cathartic and I have a talent for it."

"Bloody hell, Elise. You're almost as bad as Dr McKay." Moffatt said.

"Oh please! I may moan a lot but I'm nothing like that self-important creep. For one thing, he likes blondes. Smart blondes. Actually, smart _medically-trained_blondes," Halverson said, grinning cruelly at the medic.

"Oh, that's low. And more than a little bit scary. Doctor Nesbitt knows him doesn't he?"

Halverson just grinned again, leaving Moffatt to contemplate requesting last minute leave if she ever heard of a Canadian physicist visiting the Garrison.

Perhaps surprisingly given its prominence and obvious importance, the Lord Governor's palace seemed to have sustained no damage whatsoever. The team, led by Waldroch and now followed by a dozen men carrying the contents of the abandoned robots, stepped through the huge, ornate main gates and past a handful of tired-looking guards. On their previous visit to the palace, they'd had to enter through the servant's side entrance and get inside as quickly as possible to avoid being spotted by Fenrir scouts, but this time they were afforded the honour of entering by the front door.

The palace's grounds were small, but perfectly formed. A gently curved path lined with neatly trimmed shrubs and flowers cut through the small but lush green lawn. Waldroch lead them to the magnificent columned portico, their first real respite from the rain, then turned and motioned for the men carrying the crates to wait. Climbing half a dozen broad steps, the team and Waldroch entered the palace through a set of large double doors rendered in several varieties of beautifully carved hardwood, and passed into the grand foyer.

A collection of gasps, murmurs of surprise and one quiet profanity expressed the team's opinion of the chamber – Lhoakan craftsmanship was something remarkable to behold.

"Okay… now this is a bit posh, isn't it?" Llewellyn grinned.

"The Goa'uld should definitely have hired these guys as interior decorators," Halverson breathed, craning her head to study the beautiful architecture.

Two lines of brilliant white limestone pillars stretched from the marble tiled floor to the high ceiling, supporting a mezzanine level and framing a vast stained glass window at the far end that overlooked an imperial staircase. Between the pillars hung large banners, each bearing highly elaborate and artistic crests and other heraldic devices, all rendered in the various shades of blue, green and silvery grey that seemed to be so common to Lhoakan culture.

"Those are the standards of the militia companies," Waldroch explained, following Halverson's gaze.

Walking with impressive poise and presence towards them down the staircase, the robed figure of the Lord Governor held his arms outstretched, a broad smile etched on his aging features. He was followed by two guards.

"My advisors told me of the Circle igniting, and they were right. You have returned! I did not expect it so soon, but I am heartened at your presence here."

"Lord Governor, it's cheering to see you again, and in such high spirits," Halverson said. "We hope we're not imposing ourselves on you?"

"Not at all, you are welcome here at any time! After everything you did for us, we owe you our thanks, our lives and our friendship. I will, however, admit to a measure of curiosity as to _why_ you have returned so soon. Your fellow warriors travelled home some hours earlier, did they not? I trust nothing has happened to them?"

Friendly as ever, Llewellyn smiled. "Ah no worries, they're fine. Very happy with you, they were. In fact it's mainly because of them we're here now, to see if we can help with fixing up the place, and your people if they need it. And we've got some new toys for you and all."

He glanced across at Halverson, still grinning. Her pained smile suggested he was being inappropriate or confusing… most likely both, he surmised. Clearing his throat, and smiling with hidden embarrassment he gestured for Halverson to take over.

"Ah, that is… good? Thank you, Lieutenant," the Lord Governor said, nodding slightly, his own polite smile masking utter confusion. Waldroch smiled.

"If I may," Halverson said, stepping forward quickly to establish herself as the mouthpiece of the group, "you must have a great many things to deal with in the aftermath of yesterday's… events. However, if it isn't too much of an inconvenience, we have things we'd dearly like to discuss with you that could benefit both our peoples, in both the short term and the long term. Perhaps we could move to somewhere more comfortable to discuss them?"

The Lord Governor nodded fervently. "By all means!"

The Lord Governor turned quickly to one of his bodyguards. "Send word that the Minor Library is to be prepared to receive guests," he said. The guard nodded curtly and quickly moved off.

The Lord Governor turned back to the group in front of him. "Before we begin, First-Captain Waldroch, you have performed your duties admirably and are hereby released from them until the dawn. However, I should like you to accompany us in a rather more informal capacity – I think I will have need of your experience and advice."

As the Lhoakan head of state turned, followed by his sole remaining guard and a now off-duty Waldroch, Halverson turned to Llewellyn: "Actually, Gareth, go back to being nervous. You made fewer gaffes and more sense."

* * *

The glazed double doors were closed, but surprisingly the light was on – the room had been one of the low priority areas for continued construction work, apparently doomed to remain unlit, unpowered and uninhabited until further funding was secured. Maintenance must have tired of an irate Scot demanding they do something about it.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Dave, but I thought you said you were going to be trapped in the meeting from hell all day," Nesbitt said without looking up from the workbench, his back turned to the door as he pored over his latest research subject.

"I think Satan cancelled his four o' clock, so they reshuffled and we get a late lunch break. How did you know it was me, anyway?" Taylor said, closing the door behind him.

"I could hear your dress uniform shoes squeaking from down the corridor. Also, the tempo and force of the footsteps indicated a man who has just been subjected to the soul flaying nightmare of extended bureaucratic questioning. Look, forgive me, but if this is your lunch break, shouldn't you be—?"

Metal cutlery clattered against plastic as Taylor placed the two compartmentalised meal trays onto the workbench, gently nudging one of several open laptops out of the way.

"Ah, good man! Been meaning to get a bite to eat," Nesbitt said, happily grabbing at a packet of smoked ham and cheese sandwiches on the tray next to him that was filled with snacks, fruit and bottles of water. Taylor noticed that Nesbitt's fingers were covered in plasters.

"Well, I know how you forget little things like food and sleep when you get involved with these sort of projects… what're you working on, anyway?" Taylor said, removing his belt and jacket and carefully draping both over an empty stool before enthusiastically digging into something that was pretending to be lasagne.

"You really want to know?" Nesbitt said, leaning back and giving Taylor a wary look as he peeled the plastic off the sandwich packet.

"Try me," Taylor said, mouth full. "It cannot possibly be worse than the crap I've been hearing all morning."

"All right, you asked for it," Nesbitt said with the faintest of grins before taking a deep breath. "Since Fenrir technology appears to be derived from Asgard, or something like it, they share very similar computer and programming architecture. After the Battle of Lyngvi, all the Fenrir bodies and technology were shipped back to Earth, mostly to Area 51, while a few were supplied to Porton Down for SWRS R&D to study. Because of the extensive damage, nobody made much headway.

"But this is different. I've been modifying a standard issue Asgard interface adaptor and writing a patch for the code translation software so that it should work with Fenrir technology. Specifically, I've been examining the armour our Fenrir friend left behind when you ordered him to strip. For saying it looks like it was sewn together from leather off-cuts and scrap metal pieces, there's some remarkable technology in what he was wearing, and surprisingly, given that it's been perforated with shrapnel – shrapnel that leaves razor edged holes, I might add—" he said, looking woefully at the remarkable number of plasters on his fingers and hands and remembering how he had given up wearing latex gloves after the tenth pair snagged and tore on the jagged metal, "…a lot of it works."

Intrigued, Taylor gestured with his fork. "When you say 'remarkable technology', what are you talking about? Beaming tech? Personal shield? Personal _cloak_?"

"Oh no, nothing like that I'm afraid. Well… not so far, anyway. No, it's mainly sensors, lots of data storage, and _lots_ of computer tech, and it's all highly redundant."

Taylor mused on this for a second. "He was a scout," he said with realisation and conviction. "That's why he was so far from the Talons when the rest of the Fenrir left."

"Hmm. Makes sense – the sensors, the storage…" Nesbitt took another huge bite of the sandwich he was waving around as he talked, slivers of grated cheddar arcing through the air and landing on the laptop, his legs and the floor.

"Any chance you can you read that storage, tell me what he saw before coming to Lhoaka? It might help us piece together where the Fenrir are based at the moment."

Nesbitt screwed his face up. "Doubtful… maybe. Look, I can't promise anything. I've been insanely lucky to get as far as I have, I think. At the moment, this is all just jury-rigged and delicate, strictly lab-only, and I've only got as far as I have through trial and error – that, and I have limited assets at my disposal. I'll do what I can, but don't expect miracles."

Taylor let out an amused snort as he chewed the last mouthful of not-quite-lasagne. He'd long since learned to eat anything remotely edible, regardless of taste, and to do so with alarming speed, especially when faced with 'food' like the lasagne.

"Never do, but annoyingly you often insist on delivering anyway. Right, I'd better be heading back soon. Don't want to incur more wrath than is strictly necessary. I think I'm approaching the lethal dosage as it is."

Nesbitt placed the sandwich back on the tray and turned away from the open laptop. "What's been going on in there?"

"Oh, you know, usual IOA crap. Tearing apart and criticising every tiny decision any of us has made while in the service of the SWRS, questioning whether we should even exist as a unit, threatening to disband us and hand the Garrison back to the Americans and generally stick their collective heads—"

"In the sand?"

"Oh no. No, it's somewhere much warmer, much closer to home and much, much more familiar. They are seriously trying to pretend the Fenrir don't exist, or aren't a real problem."

Nesbitt whistled. "I heard Gareth took the rest of the team offworld."

"Yep, partly because Webber is concerned about another Fenrir attack and wants a unit on Lhoaka round the clock for the next week."

"How do you think he'll do?"

Taylor simply stared at the Scottish scientist. "It's Llewellyn," he said, enunciating and emphasising every syllable as if that was all the explanation Nesbitt needed.

"And?"

"And he's on a diplomatic mission with orders to deliver a load of weapons to the Lhoakans. Frankly, I'm terrified we're going to have another interplanetary conflict on our hands by tea time."

Nesbitt scoffed. "Come on, that's not fair. He's cheerful, he's friendly, he's enthusiastic…he's not that bad!"

Taylor sighed. "I know. He knows his stuff inside and out, and he's got a tonne of potential, but also a complete and congenital absence of savoir faire. Okay…imagine he's at Buckingham Palace, being awarded, I don't know, the George Cross by the Queen."

"Oh…oh God!" Nesbitt muttered, his face sinking as he pictured the scene. Taylor quickly provided commentary to the mental images with a surprisingly accurate mimicry of Llewellyn's voice, accent and speech patterns.

"'Oi Liz! Cheers for the medal, love. I'll buy you a pint shall I?'" Taylor said in a faux Welsh accent, finishing by miming giving the Queen a hearty backslap complete with sound effect.

Nesbitt shook his head. "Now come on, he's not _that_ bad."

"Right. Remember when we were training for Stargate ops in Nevada? Remember what happened when he told that joke to General Turnbull?"

"Joke? I…" Nesbitt shook his head.

"If I remember correctly, it was the one that began 'So a priest, a horse and a—"

"Oh crap."


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

The Minor Library seemed to be anything but, an impressive circular room in which every surface had apparently been lined with some variety of mahogany. Nearly every wall was a recessed bookcase, and on both the ground floor and the library's mezzanine level every bookcase was filled to capacity with by now typically beautifully crafted books and neatly stacked scrolls. The ceiling had been built with a large and elaborate round skylight that provided surprising illumination for the large circular table and its attendant chairs directly below, while the vast fireplace at the far end of the room ensured the room remained comfortably warm all year round despite the glazed ceiling.

"Our superiors are very interested in forming an alliance of some description with your people. We're here to see if signing a formal treaty might be a possibility," Halverson began.

"What can we possibly offer you?" the Lord Governor spluttered affably. "Doctor, forgive me. You honour us, but we've seen your remarkable, fearsome technology at work. Captain Waldroch and others have told me a great deal of your swiftly repeating muskets, your devices for talking at a great distance and your fulminating concoctions, amongst other remarkable creations—"

"They also have horseless carts, Lord Governor, driven by a clockwork mechanism and that require no rider," Waldroch added happily.

"Actually—" Llewellyn began. Halverson quickly turned her head and glared at him. It had the desired effect.

"Remarkable. My question then, is how could a society that produces such terrible and wondrous devices possibly need anything from one such as ours?"

Halverson leaned forward, thinking for a second. "Technology alone is not the measure of a society, nor does it mean we have everything we need… or want. For example, every civilisation needs allies – the value of dependable friends is hard to state, no matter how great the difference in technological capability. Trade is always a strong possibility no matter the difference in our technology, and knowledge is also of high value—" Halverson said quickly.

"And that mineral you've recently discovered? Incredibly useful to us," Llewellyn interrupted, pointedly ignoring Halverson's scowl of disapproval.

"The shattersilver? I believe one of your fellow scholars called it, ah, trinium, is that correct? It is pretty, and a curiosity, but I am told it is far too brittle to be of use. This is what you want from us?" the Lord Governor asked, once again confused, but also intrigued.

Llewellyn leaned forward, enthusiastic as ever. Now he was in his element. "It's a very rare metal that's naturally brittle, yeah, but if worked and prepared properly, it can be a hundred times stronger than steel. We believe it could be extremely useful in fighting the Fenrir – and where we come from, it does not occur naturally, at all.

"The soil samples that Major Hamilton's team recovered and tested suggest there is a whacking great lump of salishite – that's the name we've given to trinium's primary ore – sat right under your city. If I had to guess, I'd say it's probably the core of an asteroid that collided with your planet a few eons ago, and frankly, it's bloody huge. In fact the hill your city is built on is part of what was probably the wall of the impact crater that…" Llewellyn said, trailing off as he became aware that both the Lord Governor's and Waldroch's faces had turned blank. "Look, the point is, we don't require all of it, but basically, we're looking to lay our hands on as much as you're willing to part with."

"At the very least, if you're not willing to part with it, we really need to ensure the Fenrir don't get hold of it. That alone is incredibly important to us, because we believe it may be the reason they came here. It's a vital component of their technology, their weapons, even their bodies… it's what makes them so strong and so hard to kill. If they were to lay their hands on a large supply of trinium…" Halverson said, her tone dark.

Llewellyn fidgeted in his seat. "In return, we'd share a load of our scientific and technological information with you, easily enough to help you develop weapons with which to repulse any future Fenrir attacks. And until you've developed those weapons, we're willing to supply ones of our own making to you, as well as the ammo.

"We have a shipment with us now, waiting outside, a whole mess of guns a lot like the ones we loaned your troops yesterday – which we're going to need back, by the way. Sergeant Jarvis and I can start collecting our guns, issuing the new ones and schooling your soldiers in their operation and maintenance right away if you want. Call it a show of good faith, yeah?

"As well as tech, we can offer our services if you are attacked again, sort of a Mutual Defence Agreement. If you're up for it that is, you don't need to commit now, just let us know if you're open to a treaty. We can hammer out the details later. The weapons are yours either way."

Not for the first time since they'd known him, the Lord Governor was lost for words, partly because he was trying to mentally translate the engineer's excited, colloquial language. Llewellyn grinned obliviously, but Halverson was concerned.

"I…I don't quite know how to thank you. However, I must apologise – I shall need time to fully consider your offer and its implications. It is remarkably generous, but I simply cannot make a decision of this magnitude by myself. The last time a Lord Governor did that he was… executed. Please excuse me, I must consult with the guild masters, the houselords and the grand-captains. I'm afraid it may take some time, at least a few hours. In the meantime, please consider yourselves guests of the highest order." The Lord Governor stood to leave.

"With your permission, our medic would like to tend to as many of your wounded as she can and disseminate the medical supplies we've brought with us as soon as possible, and I'd like to spend those few hours researching your history. I'd love to learn more about your people and your society," Halverson said quickly.

"By all means, Doctor, by all means – on both counts. I'll instruct one of the servants to show you to the Grand Library and ensure you are provided with everything you may need, and you may inform your apothecary she has our blessings and gratitude."

* * *

Without any real urgency or purpose, Private Benson strolled into the guardroom, casually cradling his SA80 assault rifle after patrolling Section J yet again. The steel reinforced concrete walls and ceiling surrounding him were essentially brand new, the holding cells having only been finished a week before. It showed – there was remarkably little equipment or even official military decoration, and there were still several places where wires sprouted from the walls, taped together in bunches and waiting to be attached to equipment that hadn't yet been delivered. He glanced quickly at Sergeant Maynard, sat in a folding chair with his feet propped up on an unopened crate, his arms crossed and his eyes closed, his rifle propped up next to him. Benson envied him.

"Hey, Crossword. How's Fido doing?"

With a bored sigh, Private Crossman dropped the crumpled, well-read lad's mag – the closest thing to reading matter that he'd been able to find – back onto the desk and looked up wearily from behind the recently installed monitor, glancing at Benson.

"Take a look for yourself. It just paces backwards and forwards. Sometimes it paces forwards, then backwards, and occasionally it scratches itself. It's more entertaining than Britain's Got Talent."

"Smart arse. Anything's more entertaining than Britain's Got Talent."

"Yeah, well… sometimes it scrapes its claws along the walls, bleeds on the floor, stops to pull bits of shrapnel out of its wounds or spends a couple of minutes howling and snarling. Satisfied?"

"Jeez, I'm sorry I asked," Benson said, turning to start another of his idle, bored patrols.

"Look, I was thinking," Crossman said after a few seconds.

"Just for a change, you mean?" Benson sneered. "As it happens, I've been thinking as well."

"Really? You okay? You need to go and lie down?" Sergeant Maynard said from the other side of the room, his eyes still closed even as he grinned.

"Funny, Sarge," Benson said with a humourless smile.

"Look," Crossman continued, "it got pretty badly hurt – don't you think we should send somebody in to treat its injuries? I mean, if it's as important as the Major said it is, don't we want it alive?"

"You volunteering to walk in there with a first aid kit?" Benson asked.

"Well, at least if he did we'd be keeping the prisoner fed," Maynard muttered, shifting into a more comfortable position without once opening his eyes.

"Hey, Crossword – you want to give it bandages and painkillers, how about _you_ phone the Brigadier to ask him for authorisation, huh?" Benson continued.

Realising he wasn't going to get anywhere, Crossman shook his head and went back to keeping an eye on the alien via the monitor.

Benson smiled weakly and turned to look at the cell. He wasn't an engineer or an architect, but he knew enough about basic construction from working with his Dad after leaving school to know that the holding cells were ridiculously well built, boasting thick concrete walls reinforced with rebar and heavy steel doors with so many locks it was almost comical. When he'd first been assigned to Section J he'd laughed about how overbuilt the containment rooms were, joking that somebody had accidentally moved a decimal point somewhere along the line. He'd done this right up until he watched a wounded, weakened and groggy Fenrir idly swat Lance-Corporal Graves with enough force to lift him off the ground and hurl him across the room. The crunch they'd heard had been four of his bones fracturing from the impact with the concrete wall.

The door had a narrow, mesh-reinforced polycarbonate viewing strip built into it, and Benson decided to look in on the lycanthropic alien personally.

The cell itself was barely lit, more due to the unfinished nature of the entire base and the Brigadier's orders that construction absolutely must focus on mission critical areas first. They were lucky they had even a single camera inside the holding room.

Benson struggled to make out any shapes inside – the cell didn't appear to have more than one small light, or at least no more working ones. He could just barely see unnerving scratches in the wall, unsettlingly deep gouges that always ran in threes, and recalled a briefing in which he'd heard the Fenrir had incredibly strong claws. Coupled with their immense strength, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that given enough time and privacy, it could dig its way through the concrete and rebar. Suddenly the prison didn't feel as ridiculously secure as it had moments before.

He scanned around the inside of the cell as best he could from his limited vantage point, pressing his nose against the glass and striving to see the alien captive.

Something moved with inconceivable speed and Benson found his gut had turned to ice, and his heart pounded loud and fast enough for him to be able to hear.

Staring back at him through the thin viewing slit were two narrow, wicked-looking golden eyes, devoid of pupils and focused unflinchingly on his, where a second before there had been nothing. Barely audible, almost like a whisper, he realised the werewolf was speaking to him, its mouth open but unmoving.

"Heed my words, prey. I can smell the blood surging through your succulent flesh, your sweat reeks of fear… soon I will be free, and then I will slaughter and feast upon every frail, whimpering ape within this pathetic fortress. You will be the first, alive and screaming as I consume your flesh, witness to your own demise. The marrow in your bones promises to be… exquisite."

Black lips receded in a chilling, twisted parody of a smile, the Fenrir running its tongue over a mouthful of silver fangs, and then the terrifying apparition was gone. Benson found himself taking several faltering steps back involuntarily, his heart hammering in his chest and his lungs sucking down great volumes of air as he stared at the viewing port.

"Holy… crap! Holy crap, holy crap…" he muttered, stepping backwards and clutching the SA80 tightly, his knuckles white around the weapon's pistol grip. He was involuntarily raising it to point at the door, shaking.

"Yep, he'll do that," Crossman said sagely from across the room without even looking. "He got Baxter and the Sarge the same way earlier."

"Actually, I think it might have been coming on to Baxter," Maynard said playfully. "Not surprising really. Have you noticed how hairy that lad is?"

"Christ! You could have warned me!"

"Where the hell would the fun be in that?" Maynard said.

"It's just his way of being defiant, some tiny little victory over his captors. Who'd have thought the big bad wolf would get his kicks creeping up on people and giving them the evil eye, eh?" Crossman said. Maynard chuckled.

Benson shook his head, the shock subsiding but being replaced by something darker and altogether more chilling. He realised that neither Crossman nor Maynard had heard the wolf speak. That had been reserved especially for him.

"No… that's not it. There's something more. I think it's doing it to psych us out. See how we react." Maynard said, uncharacteristically seriously. "Where the hell is Baxter, anyway? How bloody long does it take to get four cups of tea?"

The Fenrir listened from inside the cell. Its sensitive ears could hear the entire exchange, and it smiled to itself. It had successfully sown the first seeds of doubt and fear.

Its wounds, while many, were almost all superficial and it picked inattentively at another shard of blackened, warped razor edged metal lodged in its shoulder, using its claws like tweezers to grasp and remove the offending splinter before dropping it to the floor to join the dozens of other shrapnel shards and stone chips. Tiny round splashes of nearly black ichor dripped onto the floor with each shard.

Turning away from the single tiny but well-protected surveillance device in the corner of the cell, it ran the claw on its right index finger along the inside of its left forearm, feeling the small lump move under the skin. It pushed the claw harder and harder, almost delighting in the building pain until the resilient flesh finally gave and the silvery talon punctured the skin. Thick black fluid seeped out of the wound, matting its fur into glistening spikes, but the wolf ignored the blood, knowing it would coagulate as quickly as the wounds it had sustained earlier. Instead it focused on using its thumb and forefinger to feel inside the flesh – until it felt the hardness of the tiny object it was searching for, and carefully, grasping it between the two claws like a pincer, it withdrew a silver cylinder.

* * *

"Good grief… what is this place?" Llewellyn murmured as they entered the large, ancient stone building. Waldroch lead the way, while Jarvis followed.

"This, my friends, is the Great Bastion. It is Lhoaka's oldest military institution, and the second most ancient building in our city after the Shrine of Daphell – though many claim there is still at least a century's difference in their age."

Waldroch had chosen the location well. The centrally located Great Bastion was one of the only places in Lhoaka where all the companies of the city guard could be addressed equally. As the oldest military structure in Lhoaka it predated the reorganisation of the city guard into largely independent militia companies each raised, funded and equipped by one of the noble houses.

Llewellyn hadn't been the only member of his team to mistake the Great Bastion for a cathedral or religious structure on both of their visits to Lhoaka, and in a sense he wasn't entirely wrong – as well as serving as a neutral site for all the militias to meet, train, recruit, discuss policy and settle disagreements, it was a military church, a memorial ground for fallen warriors. The main hall was large and well lit by rows of stained glass windows.

"Doc Halverson would love this place…" Llewellyn breathed. Jarvis simply grunted in the affirmative.

"Should we bring her down here then? I can send a runner—" Waldroch said.

"No, no. Best leave her be," Llewellyn answered quickly. "She can always come back another time."

"Forgive me for asking, but does a…problem exist between you and Doctor Halverson? You frequently seem at odds with each other."

"Honestly? She's always like that, but in this case she's angry because she thinks we're going to end up destroying your society by giving you all this tech and these weapons."

"And you don't agree?"

"I think we're going to end up _saving_ your society by giving you the means to fight off the Fenrir, and so do my superiors or else we wouldn't be here giving you guns and tech."

Waldroch nodded uncertainly, turning his attention to the hall full of warriors as Llewellyn and Jarvis began to set up, heaving the large crate onto the oak tables that had been set out for them. Jarvis turned to lift the ammunition box onto the table as well while Llewellyn stepped in front of the table, ready to address the soldiers.

The Lhoakan soldiers were weary, often dirty and frequently wearing dented, scratched or even pierced armour, in almost complete contrast to their elaborate, polished finery of the previous day, but they still looked like an impressive if substantially diminished and more experienced fighting force. There were variations in the uniforms of the men in front of him, chiefly different patterns of largely the same colours – always variations on silver, green and blue – that Llewellyn guessed indicated the different militia companies.

"All right people, settle down. First, we want to say thanks for having us here. Now, yesterday, we loaned some of you two dozen assault rifles. With the immediate danger passed, we need them back – all of them," he said.

A wave of concerned murmurs swept through the assembled warriors.

"However," Llewellyn said loudly over the worried noise, "we're not going to leave you without some kind of defence against the Fenrir returning, because for every one of our weapons we get back, we will give you _four_ of these."

As he spoke, Jarvis undid the clasps on one of the eight large crates stacked in front of him, pushed the heavy duty olive drab lid back and pulled a rifle from the foam inlay. He handed it to Llewellyn along with a STANAG magazine, who then walked to the very front and centre of the slightly raised stage, holding the slightly tarnished black assault rifle aloft by its carrying handle for the entire assembly of soldiers to see.

"This," Llewellyn began, his voice booming through the main hall, "is what we call a Colt M16A1 assault rifle, or you can just call it an M16 if you like. I can tell you that it fires a light armour piercing 5.56mm round with a muzzle velocity of over three thousand feet per second, and it can do this at a rate of approximately seven hundred rounds a minute within an effective range of over one thousand eight hundred feet. Each box magazine," he waved the flat, curved metal container, "holds thirty such rounds. It is very similar to the weapons we loaned you, which we call Colt Canada C7 assault rifles. Basically, the M16 is just the older, original version of the C7, but for your purposes it is almost as good and much easier for us to get hold of to give to you."

The concerned murmurs became appreciative, almost excited conversation. Llewellyn waited a few seconds before continuing, his surprisingly loud voice cutting through the chatter and quickly redirecting all attention towards him.

"Yesterday, the Sergeant and I gave two dozen of your musketeers very basic instruction in the use of the C7. Today, we're going to give many more of you a lot more tuition on the M16. We will teach you how to strip, clean, maintain, load, aim and properly fire this weapon, because once we get our rifles back… these become yours, permanently. But only once we get our weapons back."

With that, Llewellyn stepped back, handing the rifle back to Jarvis who promptly replaced the M16 in the crate and closed the lid. He turned to face Llewellyn while the Lhoakan soldiers talked among themselves.

"Sir, if you don't mind me asking…"

"I know what you're going to say. Where'd we get nearly a hundred working service rifles on our budget? Believe me, I asked the Brigadier the same thing. From what I remember, it goes something like this. At the early dial-in, when we sent Lieutenant Yates back, Webber sent a request to the MoD via the SGC, who promptly okayed it and bounced it back to General Landry along with authorisation for funds. Landry then requisitioned a job lot of surplus Vietnam War-era rifles from Fort Carson just outside Colorado Springs in time for them to be delivered to us at our next supply shipment from the SGC. I'm pretty sure they were intended for civil defence and National Guard or reserve use in the event of some kind of emergency, or something like that at any rate. All I know is the Garrison really needs those C7s back. Okay, I think I can leave them in your capable hands. I'm going to check on the others."

* * *

"So yet again, we're bowing to American pressure? Just like in every conflict since the Falklands, just like with Glastonbury, we roll over and let our transatlantic cousins tell us how they're going to take over, and how we're going to thank them for the privilege?" Bullock said with enough anger to actually smack the table with the side of his fist. Taylor could see Webber was looking immensely uncomfortable at this turn in the conversation, while Chapman, the British IOA representative, simply buried his face in his hands.

"Oh for crying out loud, are you still bitching about that?" O'Neill said, throwing his pen down in disgust and vigorously massaging his temples to stave off the headache.

"You ransacked a historically significant site—" Bullock began.

"That you didn't even know about!"

"—On British soil without the slightest hint of contrition."

"Your Prime Minister okayed the whole thing! How is this still an issue? How is this even _relevant_?" O'Neill leaned over the table, and smiled at Bullock. "Lemme make this clear. We're offering you a 304. Hell, maybe even a bunch of them, and it's not like it's the first time! _Your_ government defaulted on the payments," he said before leaning back in his chair. "Personally, I gotta say, I appreciate what you guys are doing here, or… are going to do… have done… but the truth is, I have to toe the party line. Homeworld Command and IOA policy agrees that Earth should be seen to present a… what did they call it?"

The US IOA representative, Coolidge, spoke quietly and in that peculiarly efficient, icy manner unique to bureaucrats that made the whole room listen:

"Politically unified front."

"Right! One big happy family! We can't let the galaxy know that we're actually a planet of bickering morons."

Bullock shook his head. "Rubbish. You just want to maintain the US monopoly on offworld activities."

"We have the most experience! We've been doing this for a decade and a half for God's sakes! And if we were looking to maintain our monopoly – not that we have one – we wouldn't be offering you one or more 304s, again," O'Neill continued.

"General O'Neill is right," Melford said. "We can still contribute to the defence of our world and further peace and stability in the galaxy while maintaining an offworld presence, but without the risk, limitations or even expense of this operation. The next _Daedalus_-class vessel will be coming off the assembly line in three months. Right now, it's being earmarked as the _Heracles_ for the United States Air Force Second Tactical Wing, but we have been granted special dispensation to make an offer in the next four weeks, with a substantial discount, in exchange for surrendering any claim to this facility and the Stargate program. Personally I think it's very fair, and very sensible."

"And what happens to all this?" Taylor said accusingly.

Melford took a deep breath, suppressing a cruel smile. "The Special Warfare and Reconnaissance Service will be permanently shut down and dismantled, its assets returned to Earth where they are actually needed. A few personnel may be transferred to the RAF's soon-to-be-formed No. 1 Special Expeditionary Wing to work on the starships, and the odd one or two may find work with some aspect of the Stargate Program or IOA, but most will be returned to their old units or jobs. Accept it Major, the mistake that was the SWRS is going to be rectified, and this base will be shut down before it's even been officially made operational."

* * *

"Okay to come in?" Llewellyn asked, rapping lightly on the frame of the door to the library. Though only separated by a short corridor, Llewellyn thought that the Grand Library was almost disappointingly mundane and functional after seeing the Minor Library, which Waldroch had later informed him was the highly erudite Lord Governor's favourite part of the palace and also his preferred room for receiving guests.

"If you want." Halverson didn't even look up as she spoke. She was in her element, deciphering the local history and written language while surrounded by piles of books, scrolls and old artefacts. Her laptop was open next to her, but she seemed to spend more time scribbling furiously in a spiral bound notebook. Nevertheless, she was still evidently unhappy.

Footsteps reverberating loudly on the uncarpeted floor, Llewellyn wandered further into the large, rectangular room and elected to sit on the edge of the long oak table running almost the length of the room, picking a spot close to where Halverson was working. Annoyed, Halverson dropped her pen and looked up from her work, still refusing to make eye contact.

"What are the others doing?" she asked tersely, staring out of the tall window opposite her.

"Sergeant Jarvis is trying to teach the Lhoakan musketeers everything he knows about M16 assault rifles. They're hardly thick, but his teaching methods are a bit lacking."

"And Kelly?"

"Well, Corporal Moffatt's showing the city's best doctors some radical new treatments for those wounded in yesterday's attacks, like antiseptics. She says they're astonished at germ theory."

"So they've already jumped two hundred years to Pasteur and Lister. Great," She said venomously, without looking up.

"Don't get so worked up about it. I watched Moffatt with some of their doctors. Did you know that they're still using bloodletting as a cure-all, that they have no clue what anaesthesia is, and their idea of an effective way of fending off disease is to carry flowers and herbs because they smell nice?"

"So let them! It isn't up to us to decide what tech level a society should be at. It isn't our duty to elevate 'lesser' cultures to our level – the major powers tried doing that on Earth during the heyday of Imperialism. I thought that as a culture, we might have evolved beyond that mode of thinking and believing in something like the White Man's Burden. Turns out that only applies while we're on Earth."

"C'mon…" Llewellyn said.

"No, Gareth. This is important. The SGC has seen the effects of societies acquiring technology that's way ahead of theirs, and they're not pretty. They've been on the receiving end more than a few times, and plenty of cultures know all about the dangers of technological uplift – the Tollans, the Nox, the Tok'ra, even the Asgard."

Llewellyn sighed. "We've been over this. We need that trinium. We can make ammunition to eliminate the Fenrir, armour able to actually survive being hit by their weapons, not to mention—"

Halverson abruptly dropped the leather-bound tome she was reading and turned to face Llewellyn for the first time since he had entered the room, glaring intently.

"It isn't about taking the bloody trinium off them! It's the technology. It's the fact that the MoD don't give a damn about the damage they're going to wreak on this society. I know we're fighting a war here, I'm not that blind, or stupid, and I know unsavoury things have to happen. But they don't have to happen like this!" she hissed.

"C'mon Doc, what were you expecting? That we leave the Lhoakans to fight off the next attack with flintlock muskets and polearms? You saw it too, they were getting _slaughtered_. The Major was right, we were lucky things turned out the way they did yesterday, bloody lucky. Plus, we both know that with that much trinium sitting under the ground, the Fenrir are going to come back – you know it, I know it, they know it. The Lhoakans need to be ready!"

Halverson turned back to her book. "Not like this. It's not right. It's going to destroy them, Gareth."

"So will the Fenrir, only this way they have a fighting chance. Given enough time to build and prepare, they'll have a damn good fighting chance, maybe enough to turn the tide or at least take out a lot of Fenrir in the process, and it'll be a lot kinder and nobler than otherwise inescapable death by misanthropic werewolves."

"So, what, they're just cannon fodder to you?" Halverson said, disgustedly and incredulously.

After a moment spent staring impassively at her, Llewellyn stood upright and walked forcefully around the corner of the table to her seat, leaning on the arm, and proceeded to do something Halverson had never known him do in all the time she'd known him.

He got angry.

"You know what Doc?" he hissed through gritted teeth, his face inches from hers. "This is war. It's not nice, it's not pretty and it is most _definitely_ not fair. I know this better than you might think I do because I've seen and experienced the _very_ worst war has to offer firsthand, and God I wish every damn day and night that I hadn't, so don't you bloody _dare_ get righteous with me! When the Prison collapses in four years every last Fenrir will swarm through this galaxy and wipe out all life if they're life unchecked. I hope to God that by that time we have an effective fighting force surrounding the entire prison, even if all they do is slow their advance and whittle down their numbers because, frankly, better a few worlds fall than the entire galaxy, and the next one, and the next one.

"Besides, there is always that teeny tiny chance they might actually survive because we gave them the tech to defend themselves, and if, as is infinitely more likely, they do fall they'll at least do so with a little bit of dignity, nobility and honour, because they'll go down knowing they made a difference."

Llewellyn began to formulate a follow-up, but as he looked up he saw Halverson's shocked expression at his uncharacteristic outburst, and he knew it would not only perpetuate the argument but make things worse. He sighed, hanging his head and unclenching his jaw, massaging his forehead and forcing himself to calm down as he squatted down next to her.

"Doc, listen to me," he said, his voice calm again but unusually sombre. "Unless, for some reason, the Lhoakans reject the treaty, this is happening and you can't stop it. Right now, probably the best thing you can do is work to ease the transition, to help the Lhoakans adopt all these new technologies while still preserving as much of their culture, their way of life and their history as possible. Your best bet now is to mitigate the damage while still enabling them to become militarily and technologically potent enough to withstand another Fenrir attack, because if the bootstrapping does go wrong, it will be a far, far kinder demise than anything the Fenrir can and will do to them."

Halverson turned to face him and nodded gently. "Okay. Okay. I really hope you're right, Gareth. I'm not remotely happy about it, but I won't actively derail what you think we need to do here," she said quietly.

"Great. That's all I really wanted to hear, Doc. Now, what have you found out?"

Running her fingers through her dark hair, Halverson sighed wearily, blowing her cheeks out and mentally drawing a line under the argument, wondering how Llewellyn switched to readily back to his usual ebullient self. Shuffling her notes and pulling one of the Lhoakan tomes toward her, she focused on the task. "Okay, the grand overview, or if you prefer, Lhoakans for Dummies," she said, forcing a faint smile.

Llewellyn smiled gratefully.

"So, we know the Lhoakans are a society of traders and artisans, and have a small but pretty decent militia. As a result, they bear astonishing similarities to a lot of old Italian city-states, especially the Republic of Venice. Now, since Venice and its ilk weren't really around during the time that the Giza Stargate was active and in use on Earth, I think it's just convergent cultural evolution based on similar needs and assets. That said, we do know that the Asgard were regular visitors to Earth after the Goa'uld occupation and right up to their final days. Even the Goa'uld visited Earth more than once after the occupation ended."

Llewellyn thought for a moment, Halverson willing him to make the connection. "They did? Oh wait – wait, wait. Sokar! He transplanted a Christian settlement at least once in the Middle Ages, right?"

"Well, it was at some point during or later than the fourth century and the First Council of Nicaea, but yes. The point is, I'm not ruling out the possibility that this lot may have common ancestry with Venetians, or any other similar groups."

"So, found any evidence of Goa'uld occupation here?" Llewellyn asked.

"Nope, none that I can see. Their belief system isn't consistent with a formerly occupied planet, for one thing, and they only have nine hundred years of history. There's something else, though… large aspects of their culture don't fit the pattern of a Mediterranean descent, and lend support to the idea that the Mediterranean similarities are just coincidence. I think their actual descent may be northern Europe, or even Scandinavia, and much earlier than the Middle Ages."

"Okay, so… Scandinavia used to be the Asgard's favourite place on Earth, and we know they transplanted a lot of people from there even after the Goa'uld occupation of Earth ended."

"That was my line of thinking too, but I can't find anything to confirm it though. Their earliest recorded history isn't giving up much at all, nothing about life before Lhoaka. I'm sure I'm missing something big, like all the pieces are there and I just haven't made the connection. Wouldn't be the first time, either. I never did have a good memory," Halverson said, sighing and rubbing her eyes.

"Try caffeine. Always works for me," Llewellyn said. Halverson nodded and shunted her chair back.

"You know, I think I've been in here a little too long. I'm going to take a walk around the city, see if I get any ideas – or if I can find a Costa Coffee somewhere."

* * *

The Great Bastion was alive with activity. As he worked to place all of the recovered C7 assault rifles in two of the cases vacated by the surplus M16s, Jarvis occasionally looked up to watch the Lhoakan soldiers. They were filling the hall with a dull roar as they excitedly discussed their new rifles, some of them still practicing how to strip and aim the unloaded weapons. Officers arranged the musketeers into groups and ensured the rifles were all accounted for, while others protected the ammunition that had been gifted to them as well to ensure there weren't any accidental casualties. Many were picking over the manuals and diagrams Jarvis had handed out for reference.

"You about ready to go then, Sarge?"

Jarvis turned to see Moffatt waiting patiently in a doorway to the great hall, her considerably smaller and lighter bags in hand. Jarvis gave her a look that was half quizzical and half smile.

"The Lieutenant told me where to find you," she said by way of explanation for her presence, pointing a thumb over one shoulder to indicate the general direction of their immediate superior. This seemed to satisfy the large NCO.

"Just about. You done?" Jarvis replied as he slotted the final rifle into the foam inlay.

"I've done what I could," said Moffatt. "I didn't have nearly enough supplies, but I think I've made a bit of a difference. It's scary to think that, while I'm only a field medic, I know more about medicine than the doctors in this city. Took me hours to properly explain why hygiene is so important."

"Huh. Teaching this lot wasn't so easy either," Jarvis said. His tone was slightly irritable as he pushed the lid down and locked the clasps in place.

"I can imagine, but then we've got better foundations, so to speak. We grow up with a lot of this stuff, with a better understanding of… everything, really. They're being introduced to it raw, with very little underlying knowledge. I wonder if Elise was right."

"Being right won't win this war, Corporal. Being the only ones fighting won't either," he said as he heaved the cases off the table and walked towards the exit. Moffatt hurried after him, nodding unhappily as they headed down the passageway towards the main entrance of the Great Bastion.

"I just wish I could have done more. They've got dozens, maybe hundreds of sick and wounded in those hospitals, and I was basically limited to triage. All it came down to was cleaning, suturing and dressing a few wounds, setting up a couple of drips, giving painkillers to the worst of them and making sure the nurses wore gloves and surgical masks – and then spending an inordinate amount of time explaining _why_ they had to wear them, why herbs and poultices aren't enough and why cauterisation and amputation should be used lightly. For saying I've just spent five hours helping out, I don't feel like I've done much."

"It was enough. You helped, you made a difference. I taught, I got our guns back. Job done," Jarvis said gruffly as he turned to glance at the diminutive medic and her bags. "That all you taking back?"

"Uh, no. There are three people on stretchers outside that I was hoping we could take back to the Garrison – their injuries are pretty serious and I either can't do much for them here or just plain can't do much for them. They're stabilised to the best of my ability, but they need proper doctors and surgeons, not just a medic. Besides, I thought it might help with the whole goodwill thing. I checked with Lieutenant Llewellyn, he says its fine by him and he'll radio his permission once we open the Gate."

"Stretchers?"

"Yeah, one of the Sub-Captains was kind enough to press a few Lhoakan guards into my service after I explained what I wanted to do. They'll be with us at least as far as the Stargate," she said, smiling almost apologetically.

"Alright. Put 'em on the Sumpters if you want."

"Uh, no. Might be too bumpy, and one of them has already got a shattered pelvis, amongst other injuries. Stretchers are fine thanks, Sarge."

They stepped out of the Bastion, into the damp training grounds at the front. A few orderly units of the Lhoakan soldiers were already being drilled on rifle procedures, practising basic procedures. Jarvis was slightly amused to see recognisable British and American procedures and commands filtered through the often-strange way of doing things the Lhoakans had, but nevertheless remaining correct.

Waiting patiently at the bottom of the steps were six more guards, each pair carrying a simple stretcher of wood and canvas that had not originated in the Garrison or on Earth. The injuries were indeed severe, all three stretcher occupants bearing extensive dressings and obviously bad injuries. Only one of them was even barely conscious, gazing lazily at Jarvis and Moffatt from beneath a sedative-fuelled stupor.

Jarvis smiled as he looked again at the guards – one of them had an IV bag filled with what was almost certainly saline duct taped to one of his shoulder pauldrons, while another had the black nylon strap of a foam-padded bag over his shoulder. Jarvis could see the thin translucent tube feeding from the oxygen tank in the bag to the mask on the patient. He nodded appreciatively, having been on the receiving end of a Combat Medical Technician's aid more times than he cared to remember.

"Nice work, Moffatt."

The walk back to the gate was uneventful and mercifully slow, as Moffatt didn't want her patients overly-jostled and the Sumpters, almost empty apart from one box of rifles and one of Moffatt's mostly-empty bags each, trundled along behind them, motors whining. The Lhoakan guards were very accommodating, and refused Jarvis' offer for he and Moffatt to take over one of the stretchers, insisting that the Sub-Captain had ordered them to assist with the wounded all the way to what Moffatt was already calling the Gateyard.

"How do you think the Major's doing in the meeting, Sarge?" Moffatt asked as they approached the Stargate.

"It's the Major – he'll be fine, Corporal," Jarvis said, stopping and hearing the Sumpters immediately do likewise behind him. Nodding, Moffatt walked over to the DHD and waited, looking at the Sergeant. Jarvis clicked his radio.

"Lieutenant Llewellyn sir, we're at the gate with the Lhoakan casualties and the rifles. Standing by to dial," Jarvis said into his radio.

"Roger that Sergeant. Dial the gate."

Jarvis nodded and Moffatt dialled. As the unstable vortex receded, Moffatt pushed her left sleeve up to expose the GDO on her forearm, her fingers poised over the buttons to transmit her IDC.

"Lyngvi Garrison, this is Lieutenant Llewellyn."

"This is Lyngvi Gate Control receiving you loud and clear," Sergeant Gibson said, her voice exuding cool efficiency.

"Doctor Halverson and I are staying behind for a while longer to wait on the response to the treaty and carry out some research, but Sergeant Jarvis and Corporal Moffatt are returning with our rifles. They're also bringing with them three wounded Lhoakans who require considerably more medical or surgical attention than can be provided here," Llewellyn said, Jarvis and Moffatt listening to the same radio channel. There was a tense pause – Jarvis began to wonder if, in angry reaction to the Fenrir Taylor had dubbed 'Fido' being brought back, perhaps the Brigadier had left some last minute orders against bringing aliens back to the Garrison for any purpose.

"Roger that sir. The Brigadier has cleared you for an open-ended mission contingent upon daily check-in. All offworld visitors will be logged in under your authorisation. Standing by to receive IDC," Sergeant Gibson said calmly after a few seconds.

At Jarvis' nod, Moffatt's fingers danced over the GDO, entering and transmitting the code that would retract the Iris waiting on the other side of the event horizon several dozen light years away. The moment the GDO discreetly signalled that it had received the all-clear signal with a continuous pulse of the small vibration motor inside its hardened plastic case she stepped forward into the burbling wormhole.

Jarvis watched as she disappeared and the Lhoakans carrying the stretchers followed her, each disappearing through the shimmering, luminous blue membrane separating them from subspace with the familiar gulping sound. He tapped the remote control and the Sumpters headed after them, motors whining.

Taking a final look around and noticing fresh rainclouds gathering overhead, Jarvis walked up to the event horizon and stepped through. For an instant he ceased to be, instantaneously converted into an energy packet hurtling through a subspace conduit until a fraction of a second later he became himself again and emerged into the floodlit cave under Lyngvi's surface. A pair of technicians were already emptying and securing the Sumpters while Moffatt and the stretcher-bearers stood patiently to one side, the Lhoakans gazing at their surroundings with awe and curiosity.

"Welcome to Lyngvi Garrison," Jarvis said to them as he walked past, handing his weapons to a waiting Marine and heading for the control room to check in and get caught up.

"If you'd like to follow me to the Infirmary, we'll hand these three over to our medical staff and then I'll bring you back here so we can send you back to Lhoaka," Moffatt said to the waiting stretcher-bearers, smiling as she walked off.

* * *

Glancing briefly at the security monitor and seeing the wolf do exactly the same thing it had done for the last few hours, Crossman went back to idly reading the magazine for the third time. Other than the too-brief excitement and distant rumbling of the Stargate activating almost an hour before, absolutely nothing had happened since they had begun guarding the Fenrir. Still, he couldn't help smiling – Benson, one of the most loud-mouthed, opinionated, over-confident soldiers he'd ever known, now refused to go anywhere near the door of the cell, instead preferring to remain close to the back of the guardroom. He had no idea how the Fenrir had spooked him so much, but to him it was the funniest thing he'd seen in ages.

_Clink._

"You hear that?" he asked.

Maynard blinked a few times as he opened his eyes. "Hear what?"

"Huh… nothing. Never mind, Sarge."

_Clink._

"There it is again!"

"Didn't hear a thing."

Crossman stood up from the security desk and strolled warily towards the cell door, peering into the viewing port. With an ear-splitting crack the explosion tore the heavy steel door off its hinges and shunted it away from the now open, smoking cell with furious energy. Crossman didn't have time to react or even scream as the metallic mass bore down on him and crushed the desk behind him into matchsticks under its weight.

The instant the door erupted from the wall, every light, every monitor and every powered device in Section J died, plunging it into darkness and filling it with acrid smoke. In such confined quarters the shockwave rebounded off the reinforced concrete walls, throwing Maynard out of his chair, Benson up against the rear wall and Baxter back into the hall he'd been emerging from with yet another tray of mugs of tea.

His head pounding and his right ear registering nothing but a continuous high-pitched whine, Benson struggled to his feet, the darkness and blast wave disorienting him enough that he was barely able to tell which way was up without following what he was reasonably sure was the wall. He was tightly clutching the bullpup assault rifle and coughing on the smoke when something nearby snarled inhumanly. He heard Baxter scream, followed by the sound of something very organic hitting something very solid very forcefully.

Lungs heaving in the smoke and his body wracked with stinging pain, Sergeant Maynard was already scrambling around the floor, feeling through the splinters of Crossman's shattered desk for his misplaced rifle. His fingers brushed against the comforting metal and plastic form of the SA80 and he quickly pulled it into his right shoulder. Still kneeling, he aimed the assault rifle blindly towards where he was sure the cell door had been and opened fire.

Benson raised his own rifle, using the intermittent muzzle flashes to try and build up a mental picture of the wrecked guardroom and locate their assailant, but before he could fire a shadow moved with lightning speed in front of him. Maynard abruptly stopped firing, instead producing a garbled, liquid sound that a healthy human shouldn't be able to make. Something warm and wet splashed across Benson's face as Maynard's rifle clattered to the floor.

There was some light, Benson suddenly realised as he backed up into the far corner – a tiny, flickering flame underneath the wrecked cell door, but it was barely enough to see anything by, anything except the two small glowing discs hovering eight feet off where he thought the ground should be, and the faint outline of a nightmare rendered in fur and teeth. As his gut churned and he realised what the luminous circles were, they surged forwards with impossible speed and a deep, guttural snarl.

A dense furry mass locked around his neck and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. Trying to scream and finding his windpipe crushed, he squeezed the trigger on the SA80 out of abject panic. The nightmare had incredible strength and effortlessly knocked the fully automatic gun aside before even one of its rounds found a good target, but the brief tongues of flame from its barrel cast light on the glittering jaws closing in on him.

_A/N: That's it for "Baptism of Fire, Part 2", but don't worry, "Baptism of Fire, Part 3" will be along in a week or two to finish up the story. Hope you enjoyed it, and if you did - or indeed if you didn't - please leave a review!_


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